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THE  WORKS  OF 

WILKIE  COLLINS 

VOLUME    FOUR 

WITH  FIVE    ILLUSTRATIONS 


Man  and  Wife 


'^  Noud 

(PART    TWO) 

,'i^ 

\    ' 

A 

SHORT    STORIES 

MISS 

OR   MRS.? 

THE 

FROZEN    DEEP 

> 

New  York 

PETER    FENELON    COLLIER,  PUBLISHER 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


VOLUME   FOUR. 


MAN    AND    WIFE. 


PAGE 

"my   AIN  sister's  child!"   cried   BISHOPRiaGS          ....  25 

FOR   AN    INSTANT   THEY   FACED    EACH   OTHER 53 

'•he  have  mp:  his  arm,  and  led  me  back  ti>  THE  house"      .         .  119 

EVERYBODY  WAITED,  WITH   THEIR   EVES    RIVETED  ON   THE   SIIROEON'S 

HAND 145 

SHE    WAITED   FOR   HIM,  WITH   HEK   HAND   ON  THE   LOCK           .           ^          .  ISl 


MAN  AND  WIFE. 


CHAPTER  THE   THIRTY-EIGHTH. 

THE   NEWS   FROM    GLASGOW. 

The  letters  to  Lady  Lundie  and  to  Mr.  Crum 
having  been  dispatched  on  Monday,  the  return 
of  the  post  might  be  looked  for  on  Wednesday 
afternoon  at  Hain  Farm, 

Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold  held  more  than  one 
private  consultation,  during  the  interval,  on 
the  delicate  and  difficult  subject  of  admitting 
Blanche  to  a  knowledge  of  what  had  happened. 
The  wise  elder  advised,  and  the  inexperienced 
junior  listened.  "Think  of  it,"  said  Sir  Pat- 
rick; "and  do  it."  And  Arnold  thought  of  it — 
.and  left  it  undone. 

^  Let  those  who  feel  inclined  to  blame  him  re- 
-^  member  that  he  had  only  been  married  a  f ort- 
'Sf"  night.  It  is  hard,  surely,  after  but  two  weeks' 
'Nh possession  of  your  wife,  to  appear  before  her  in 

(3) 


4:  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

the  character  of  an  offender  on  trial — and  to  find 
that  an  angel  of  retribution  has  been  thrown  into 
the  bargain  by  the  liberal  destiny  which  bestowed 
on  you  the  woman  whom  you  adore ! 

They  were  all  three  at  home  on  the  Wednes- 
day afternoon,  looking  out  for  the  postman. 

The  correspondence  delivered  included  (exactly 
as  Sir  Patrick  had  foreseen)  a  letter  from  Lady 
Lundie.  Further  investigation,  on  the  far  more 
interesting  subject  of  the  expected  news  from 
Glasgow,  revealed — nothing.  The  lawyer  had 
not  answered  Sir  Patrick's  inquiry  by  return  of 
post. 

"Is  that  a  bad  sign?"  asked  Blanche. 

"It  is  a  sign  that  something  has  happened," 
answered  her  uncle.  "Mr.  Crum  is  possibly  ex- 
pecting to  receive  some  special  information,  and 
is  waiting  on  the  chance  of  being  able  to  com- 
municate it.  We  must  hope,  my  dear,  in  to- 
morrow's post." 

"Open  Lady  Lundie's  letter  in  the  meantime," 
said  Blanche.  "Are  you  sure  it  is  for  you — and 
not  for  me?" 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it.  Her  ladyship's 
reply  was  ominously  addressed  to  her  ladyship's 
brother-in-law.  "I  know  what  that  means," 
said  Blanche,  eying  her  uncle  eagerly  while  he 
was  reading  the  letter.  "If  you  mention  Anne's 
name  you  insult  my  stepmother.  I  have  men- 
tioned it  freely.  Lady  Lundie  is  mortally  of- 
fended with  me. ' ' 

Rash  judgment  of  youth !  A  lady  who  takes 
a  dignified  attitude,  in  a  family  emergency,  is 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  5 

never  mortally  offended — she  is  only  deeply 
grieved.  Lady  Lundie  took  a  dignified  attitude. 
"I  well  know,"  wrote  this  estimable  and  Chris- 
tian woman,  "that  I  have  been  all  along  re- 
garded in  the  light  of  an  intruder  by  the  family 
connections  of  my  late  beloved  husband.  But  I 
was  hardly  prepared  to  find  myself  entirely  shut 
out  from  all  domestic  confidence,  at  a  time  when 
some  serious  domestic  catastrophe  has  but  too 
evidently  taken  place.  I  have  no  desire,  dear  Sir 
Patrick,  to  intrude.  Feeling  it,  however,  to  be 
quite  inconsistent  with  a  due  regard  for  my  own 
position  (after  what  has  happened)  to  correspond 
with  Blanche,  I  addressed  myself  to  the  head  of 
the  family,  purely  m  the  interests  of  propriety. 
Permit  me  to  ask  whether — under  circumstances 
which  appear  to  be  serious  enough  to  require  the 
recall  of  my  stepdaughter  and  her  husband  from 
their  wedding-tonr — you  think  it  Decent  to 
keep  the  widow  of  the  late  Sir  Thomas  Lundie 
entirely  in  the  dark?  Pray  consider  this — not 
at  all  out  of  regard  for  Me ! — but  out  of  regard 
for  your  own  position  with  Society.  Curiosity 
is,  as  you  know,  foreign  to  my  nature.  But 
when  this  dreadful  scandal  (whatever  it  may  be) 
comes  out — which,  dear  Sir  Patrick,  it  cannot 
fail  to  do — what  will  the  world  think,  when  it 
asks  for  Lady  Lundie 's  opinion,  and  hears  that 
Lady  Lundie  knew  nothing  about  it?  Which- 
ever way  you  may  decide,  I  shall  take  no  offense. 
I  may  possibly  be  wounded — but  that  won't 
matter.  My  little  round  of  duties  will  find  me 
still  earnest,   still  cheerful.     And  even  if  you 


6  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

shut  me  out,  my  best  wishes  will  find  their  way, 
nevertheless,  to  Ham  Farm.  May  I  add — with- 
out encountering  a  sneer — that  the  prayers  of  a 
lonely  woman  are  offered  for  the  welfare  of  all?" 

*'Well?"  said  Blanche. 

Sir  Patrick  folded  up  the  letter,  and  put  it  in 
his  pocket. 

"You  have  your  stepmother's  best  wishes,  my 
dear."  Having  answered  in  those  terms,  he 
bowed  to  his  niece  with  his  best  grace,  and 
walked  out  of  the  room. 

"Do  I  think  it  decent, ' '  he  repeated  to  him- 
self, as  he  closed  the  door,  "to  leave  the  widow 
of  the  late  Sir  Thomas  Lundie  in  the  dark? 
When  a  lady's  temper  is  a  little  ruffled,  I  think 
it  more  than  decent,  1  think  it  absolutely  desira- 
ble, to  let  that  lad}'-  have  the  last  word."  He 
went  into  the  library,  and  dropped  his  sister-in- 
law's  remonstrance  into  a  box,  labeled  "Unan- 
swered Letters."  Having  got  rid  of  it  in  that 
way,  he  hummed  his  favorite  little  Scotch  air, 
and  put  on  his  hat,  and  went  out  to  svm  himself 
in  the  garden. 

Meanwhile,  Blanche  was  not  quite  satisfied 
with  Sir  Patrick's  reply.  She  appealed  to  her 
husband.  "There  is  something  wrong,"  she 
said — "and  my  uncle  is  hiding  it  from  me." 

Arnold  could  have  desired  no  better  opportu- 
nity than  she  had  offered  to  him,  in  those  words, 
for  making  the  long-deferred  disclosure  to  her  of 
the  truth.  He  lifted  his  eyes  to  Blanche's  face. 
By  an  unhappy  fatality  she  was  looking  charm- 
ingly that  morning.     How  would  she  look  if  he 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  7 

told  her  the  story  of  the  hiding  at  the  inn? 
Arnold  was  still  in  love  with  her — and  Arnold 
said  nothing. 

The  next  day's  post  brought  not  only  the  an- 
ticipated letter  from  Mr.  Crum,  but  an  unex- 
pected Glasgow  newspaper  as  well. 

This  time  Blanche  had  no  reason  to  complain 
that  her  uncle  kept  his  correspondence  a  secret 
from  her.  After  reading  the  lawyer's  letter,  with 
an  interest  and  agitation  which  showed  that  the 
contents  had  taken  him  by  surprise,  he  handed 
it  to  Arnold  and  his  niece.  "Bad  news  there," 
he  said.     "We must  share  it  together." 

After  acknowledging  the  receipt  of  Sir  Pat- 
rick's letter  of  inquiry,  Mr.  Crum  began  by 
stating  all  that  he  knew  of  Miss  Silvester's  move- 
ments— dating  from  the  time  when  she  had  left 
the  Sheep's  Head  Hotel.  About  a  fortnight 
since  he  had  received  a  letter  from  her  inform- 
ing him  that  she  had  found  a  suitable  place  of 
residence  in  a  village  near  Glasgow.  Feeling  a 
strong  interest  in  Miss  Silvester,  Mr.  Crum  had 
visited  her  some  few  days  afterward.  He  had 
satisfied  himself  that  she  was  lodging  with  re- 
spectable people,  and  was  as  comfortably  situ- 
ated as  circumstances  would  permit.  For  a  week 
more  he  had  heard  nothing  from  the  lady.  At 
the  expiration  of  that  time  he  had  received  a  let- 
ter from  her,  telling  him  that  she  had  read  some- 
thing in  a  Glasgow  newspaper,  of  that  day's 
date,  which  seriously  concerned  herself,  and 
which  would  oblig-e  her  to  travel  northward  im- 


8  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

mediately  as  fast  as  her  strength  would  permit. 
At  a  later  period,  when  she  would  be  more  cer- 
tain of  her  own  movements,  she  engaged  to  write 
again,  and  let  Mr.  Crum  know  where  he  might 
communicate  with  her  if  necessary.  In  the 
meantime,  she  could  only  thank  him  for  his  kind- 
ness, and  beg  him  to  take  care  of  any  letters  or 
messages  which  might  be  left  for  her.  Since  the 
receipt  of  this  communication  the  lawyer  had 
heard  nothing  further.  He  had  waited  for  the 
morning's  post  in  the  hope  of  being  able  to  report 
that  he  had  received  some  further  intelligence. 
The  hope  had  not  been  realized.  He  had  now 
stated  all  that  he  knew  himself  thus  far — and  he 
had  forwarded  a  copy  of  the  newspaper  alluded 
to  by  Miss  Silvester,  on  the  chance  that  an  ex- 
amination of  it  by  Sir  Patrick  might  possibly 
lead  to  further  discoveries.  In  conclusion,  he 
pledged  himself  to  write  again  the  moment  he 
had  any  information  to  send. 

Blanche  snatched  up  the  newspaper,  and 
opened  it.  "Let  me  look!"  she  said.  "lean 
find  what  Anne  saw  here,  if  anybody  can!" 

She  ran  her  eye  eagerly  over  column  after  col- 
umn and  page  after  page,  and  dropped  the  news- 
paper on  her  lap  with  a  gesture  of  despair, 

"Nothing!"  she  exclaimed.  "Nothing  any- 
where, that  I  can  see,  to  interest  Anne.  Noth- 
ing to  interest  anybody — except  Lad}'  Lundie," 
she  went  on,  brushing  the  newspaper  off  her  lap. 
"It  turns  out  to  be  all  true,  Arnold,  at  Swan- 
haven.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  is  going  to  marry 
Mrs.  Glenarm." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  9 

"What!"  cried  Arnold;  the  idea  instantly 
flashing  on  him  that  this  was  the  news  which 
Anne  had  seen. 

Sir  Patrick  gave  him  a  warning  look,  and 
picked  up  the  newspaper  from  the  floor. 

"I  may  as  well  run  through  it,  Blanche,  and 
make  quite  sure  that  you  have  missed  nothing," 
he  said. 

The  report  to  which  Blanche  had  referred  was 
among  the  paragraphs  arranged  under  the  head- 
ing of  "Fashionable  News."  "A  matrimonial 
alliance"  (the  Glasgow  journal  announced)  "was 
in  prospect  between  the  Honorable  Geoffrey  Del- 
amayn  and  the  lovely  and  accomplished  relict  of 
the  late  Matthew  Glenarm,  Esq.,  formerly  Miss 
Newenden."  The  marriage  would,  in  all  prob- 
ability, "be  solemnized  in  Scotland,  before  the 
end  of  the  present  autumn;"  and  the  wedding 
breakfast,  it  was  whispered,  "would  collect  a 
large  and  fashionable  party  at  Swanhaven 
Lodge." 

Sir  Patrick  handed  the  newspaper  silently  to 
Arnold.  It  was  plain  to  any  one  who  knew  Anne 
Silvester's  story  that  those  were  the  words  which 
had  found  their  fatal  way  to  her  in  her  place  of 
rest.  The  inference  that  followed  seemed  to  be 
hardly  less  clear.  But  one  intelligible  object,  in 
the  opinion  of  Sir  Patrick,  could  be  at  the  end  of 
her  journey  to  the  North.  The  deserted  woman 
had  rallied  the  last  relics  of  her  old  energy — and 
had  devoted  herself  to  the  desperate  purpose  of 
stopping  the  marriage  of  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

Blanche  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 


10  WORKS    OF    AVILKIE    COLLINS. 

"It  seems  like  a  fatality,"  she  said.  "Per- 
petual failure !  Pefpetual  disappointment!  Are 
Anne  and  I  doomed  never  to  meet  again?" 

She  looked  at  her  uncle.  Sir  Patrick  showed 
none  of  his  customary  cheerfulness  in  the  face  of 
disaster. 

"She  has  promised  to  write  to  Mr.  Crum,"  he 
said.  "And  Mr.  Crum  has  promised  to  let  us 
know  when  he  hears  from  her.  That  is  the  only 
prospect  before  us.  We  must  accept  it  as  re- 
signedly as  we  can." 

Blanche  wandered  out  listlessly  among  the 
flowers  in  the  conservatory.  Sir  Patrick  made 
no  secret  of  the  impression  produced  upon  him 
by  Mr.  Crum's  letter,  when  he  and  Arnold  were 
left  alone. 

"There  is  no  denying,"  he  said,  "that  mat- 
ters have  taken  a  very  serious  turn.  My  plans 
and  calculations  are  all  thrown  out.  It  is  im- 
possible to  foresee  what  new  mischief  may  not 
come  of  it,  if  those  two  women  meet ;  or  what 
desperate  act  Delamayn  may  not  commit,  if  he 
finds  himself  driven  to  the  wall.  As  things  are, 
I  own  frankly  I  don't  know  what  to  do  next.  A 
great  light  of  the  Presbyterian  Church,"  he 
added,  with  a  momentary  outbreak  of  his  whim- 
sical humor,  "once  declared,  in  my  hearing,  that 
the  invention  of  printing  was  nothing  more  nor 
less  than  a  proof  of  the  intellectual  activity  of 
the  Devil.  Upon  my  honor,  I  feel  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life  inclined  to  agree  with  him." 

He  mechanically  took  up  the  Glasgow  journal, 
which  Arnold  had  laid  aside,  while  he  spoke. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  11 

"What's  this!"  he  exclaimed,  as  a  name 
caught  his  eye  in  the  first  line  of  the  newspaper 
at  which  he  happened  to  look.  "Mrs.  Glenarm 
again!  Are  they  turning  the  iron- master's 
widow  into  a  public  character?" 

There  the  name  of  the  widow  was,  unques- 
tionably ;  figuring  for  the  second  time  in  type, 
in  a  letter  of  the  gossiping  sort,  supplied  by  an 
"Occasional  Correspondent,"  and  distinguished 
by  the  title  of  "Sayings  and  Doings  in  the 
North. ' '  After  tattling  pleasantly  of  the  pros- 
pects of  the  shooting  season,  of  the  fashions  from 
Paris,  of  an  accident  to  a  tourist,  and  of  a  scan- 
dal in  the  Scottish  Kirk,  the  writer  proceeded  to 
the  narrative  of  a  case  of  interest,  relating  to  a 
marriage  in  the  sphere  known  (in  the  language 
of  footmen)  as  the  sphere  of  "high  life." 

Considerable  sensation  (the  correspondent  an- 
nounced) had  been  caused  in  Perth  and  its  neigh- 
borhood, by  the  exposure  of  an  anonymous  at- 
tempt at  extortion,  of  which  a  lady  of  distinction 
had  lately  been  made  the  object.  As  her  name 
had  already  been  publiclj^  mentioned  in  an  appli- 
cation to  the  magistrates,  there  could  be  no  im- 
propriety in  stating  that  the  lady  in  question 
was  Mrs.  Glenarm,  whose  approaching  union 
with  the  Honorable  Geoffrey  Delamayn  was  al- 
luded to  in  another  column  of  the  journal. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  had,  it  appeared,  received  an 
anonymous  letter,  on  the  first  day  of  her  arrival 
as  guest  at  the  house  of  a  friend  residing  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Perth.  Th$  letter  warned  her 
that  there  was  an  obstacle,  of  which  she  was  her- 


13  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

self  probably  not  aware,  in  the  way  of  her  pro- 
jected marriage  with  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delaraayn. 
That  gentleman  had  seriously  compromised  him- 
self with  another  lady;  and  the  lady  would  op- 
pose his  marriage  to  Mrs.  Glenarm,  with  proof 
in  writing  to  produce  in  support  of  her  claim. 
The  proof  was  contained  in  two  letters  exchanged 
between  the  parties,  and  signed  by  their  names ; 
and  the  correspondence  was  placed  at  Mrs. 
Glenarm 's  disposal,  on  two  conditions,  as  fol- 
lows: 

First,  that  she  should  offer  a  sufficiently  lib- 
eral price  to  induce  the  present  possessor  of  the 
letters  to  part  with  them.  Secondlj^,  that  she 
should  consent  to  adopt  such  a  method  of  paying 
the  money  as  should  satisfy  the  person  that  he 
was  in  no  danger  of  finding  himself  brought 
within  reach  of  the  law.  The  answer  to  these 
two  proposals  was  directed  to  be  made  through 
the  medium  of  an  advertisement  in  the  local 
newspaper — distinguished  by  this  address,  "To 
a  Friend  in  the  Dark." 

Certain  turns  of  expression,  and  one  or  two 
mistakes  in  spelling,  pointed  to  this  insolent  let- 
ter as  being,  in  all  probability,  the  production  of 
a  Scotchman,  in  the  lower  ranks  of  life.  Mrs. 
Glenarm  had  at  once  shown  it  to  her  nearest 
relative.  Captain  Newenden.  The  captain  had 
sought  legal  advice  in  Perth.  It  had  been  de- 
cided, after  due  consideration,  to  insert  the  ad- 
vertisement demanded,  and  to  take  measures  to 
entrap  the  writer  of  the  letter  into  revealing 
himself — without,  it  is  needless  to  add,  allowing 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  13 

the  fellow  really  to  profit  by  his  attempted  act  of 
extortion. 

The  cunning  of  the  "Friend  in  the  Dark" 
(whoever  he  might  be)  had,  on  trying  the  pro- 
posed experiment,  proved  to  be  more  than  a 
match  for  the  lawyers.  He  had  successfully 
eluded  not  only  the  snare  first  set  for  him,  but 
others  subsequently  laid.  A  second,  and  a  third, 
anonymous  letter,  one  more  impudent  than  the 
other,  had  been  received  by  Mrs.  Glenarm,  as- 
suring that  lady  and  the  friends  who  were  acting 
for  her  that  they  were  only  wasting  time,  and 
raising  the  price  which  would  be  asked  for  the 
correspondence,  by  the  course  they  were  taking. 
Captain  Newenden  had  thereupon,  in  default  of 
knowing  what  other  course  to  pursue,  appealed 
publicly  to  the  city  magistrates ;  and  a  reward 
had  been  offered,  under  the  sanction  of  the  mu- 
nicipal authorities,  for  the  discovery  of  the  man. 
This  proceeding  also  having  proved  quite  fruit- 
less, it  was  understood  that  the  captain  had 
arranged,  with  the  concurrence  of  his  English 
solicitors,  to  place  the  matter  in  the  hands  of  an 
experienced  officer  of  the  London  police. 

Here,  so  far  as  the  newspaper  correspondent 
was  aware,  the  affair  rested  for  the  present. 

It  was  only  necessary  to  add,  that  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm had  left  the  neighborhood  of  Perth,  in  order 
to  escape  further  annoyance;  and  had  placed 
herself  under  the  protection  of  friends  in  another 
part  of  the  county.  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn, 
whose  fair  fame  had  been  assailed  (it  was  need- 
less, the  correspondent  added  in  parenthesis,  to 


14  WORKS   OP   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

say  how  groundlessly),  was  understood  to  have 
expressed,  not  only  the  indignation  natural  under 
the  circumstances,  but  also  his  extreme  regret  at 
not  finding  himself  in  a  position  to  aid  Captain 
Newenden's  efforts  to  bring  the  anonymous 
slanderer  to  justice.  The  honorable  gentleman 
was,  as  the  sporting  public  were  well  aware, 
then  in  course  of  strict  training  for  his  forth- 
coming appearance  at  the  Fulliam  Foot-race.  So 
important  was  it  considered  that  his  miad  should 
not  be  harassed  by  a,nnoyances,  in  his  present 
responsible  position,  that  his  trainer  and  his 
principal  backers  had  thought  it  desirable  to 
hasten  his  removal  to  the  neighborhood  of  Ful- 
ham — where  the  exercises  which  were  to  prepare 
him  for  the  race  were  now  being  continued  on 
the  spot. 

"The  mystery  seems  to  thicken,"  said  Arnold. 

"Quite  the  contrary,"  returned  Sir  Patrick, 
briskly.  "The  mystery  is  clearing  fast — thanks 
to  the  Glasgow  newspaper.  I  shall  be  spared 
the  trouble  of  dealing  with  Bishopriggs  for  the 
stolen  letter.  Miss  Silvester  has  gone  to  Perth, 
to  recover  her  correspondence  with  Geoffrey 
Delamayn." 

' '  Do  you  think  she  would  recognize  it, ' '  said 
Arnold,  pointing  to  the  newspaper,  "in  the  ac- 
count given  of  it  here?" 

"Certainly!  And  she  could  hardly  fail,  in  my 
opinion,  to  get  a  step  further  than  that.  Unless 
I  am  entirely  mistaken,  the  authorship  of  the 
anonymous  letters  has  not  mystified  hei\ ' ' 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  15 

"How  could  she  guess  at  that?" 

"In  this  way,  as  I  think.  Whatever  she  may 
have  previously  thought,  she  must  suspect,  by 
this  time,  that  the  missing  correspondence  has 
been  stolen,  and  not  lost.  Now,  there  are  only 
two  persons  whom  she  can  think  of  as  probably 
guilty  of  the  theft — Mrs.  Inchbare  or  Bishop- 
riggs.  The  newspaper  description  of  the  style 
of  the  anonymous  letters  declares  it  to  be  the 
style  of  a  Scotchman  in  the  lower  ranks  of  life — 
in  other  words,  points  plainly  to  Bishopriggs. 
You  see  that?  Very  well.  Now  suppose  she 
recovers  the  stolen  property.  What  is  likely  to 
happen  then?  She  will  be  more  or  less  than 
woman  if  she  doesn't  make  her  way  next,  pro- 
vided with  her  proofs  in  writing,  to  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm.  She  may  innocently  help,  or  she  may  inno- 
cently frustrate,  the  end  we  have  in  view — either 
way,  our  course  is  clear  before  us  again.  Our 
interest  in  communicating  with  Miss  Silvester 
remains  precisely  the  same  interest  that  it  was 
before  we  received  the  Glasgow  newspaper.  I 
propose  to  wait  till  Sunday,  on  the  chance  that 
Mr.  Crum  may  write  again.  If  we  don't  hear 
from  him,  I  shall  start  for  Scotland  on  Monday 
morning,  and  take  my  chance  of  finding  my  way 
to  Miss  Silvester,  through  Mrs.  Glenarm." 

"Leaving  me  behind?" 

"Leaving  you  behind.  Somebody  must  stay 
with  Blanche.  After  having  only  been  a  fort- 
night married,  must  I  remind  you  of  that?" 

"Don't  you  think  Mr.  Crum  will  write  before 
Monday?" 


16  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"It  will  be  such  a  fortunate  circumstance  for 
us,  if  he  does  write,  that  I  don't  venture  to  an- 
ticipate it." 

"You  are  down  on  our  luck,  sir." 

"I  detest  slang,  Arnold.  But  slang,  I  own, 
expresses  my  state  of  mind,  in  this  instance,  with 
an  accuracy  which  almost  reconciles  me  to  the 
use  of  it — for  once  in  a  way." 

"Everybody's  luck  turns  sooner  or  later,"  per- 
sisted Arnold.  "I  can't  help  thinking  our^  luck 
is  on  the  turn  at  last.  Would  you  mind  taking 
abet,  Sir  Patrick?" 

"Apply  at  the  stables.  I  leave  betting,  as  I 
leave  cleaning  the  horses,  to  my  groom." 

With  that  crabbed  answer  he  closed  the  con- 
versation for  the  day. 

The  hours  passed,  and  time  brought  the  post 
again  in  due  course — and  the  post  decided  in 
Arnold's  favor!  Sir  Patrick's  want  of  confi- 
dence in  the  favoring  patronage  of  Fortune 
was  practically  rebuked  by  the  arrival  of  a 
second  letter  from  the  Glasgow  lawyer  on  the 
next  day. 

"I  have  the  pleasure  of  announcing"  (Mr. 
Crum  wrote)  "that  I  have  heard  from  Miss 
Silvester,  by  the  next  postal  delivery  ensuing, 
after  I  had  dispatched  my  letter  to  Ham  Farm. 
She  writes,  very  briefly,  to  inform  me  that  she 
has  decided  on  establishing  her  next  place  of 
residence  in  London.  The  reason  assigned  for 
taking  this  step — which  she  certainly  did  not 
contemplate  when  I  last  saw  her — is,  that  she 
finds   herself   approaching   the   end  of   her   pe- 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  17 

cuniary  resources.  Having  already  decided  on 
adopting,  as  a  means  of  living,  the  calling  of 
a  concert-singer,  she  has  arranged  to  place  her 
interests  in  the  hands  of  an  old  friend  of  her 
late  mother  (who  appears  to  have  belonged  also 
to  the  musical  profession) :  a  dramatic  and  musi- 
cal agent  long  established  in  the  metropolis,  and 
well  known  to  her  as  a  trustworthy  and  respect- 
able man.  She  sends  me  the  name  and  address 
of  this  person — a  copy  of  which  you  will  find  on 
the  inclosed  slip  of  paper — in  the  event  of  my 
having  occasion  to  write  to  her,  before  she  is 
settled  in  London.  •  This  is  the  whole  substance 
of  her  letter.  I  have  only  to  add,  that  it  does 
not  contain  the  slightest  allusion  to  the  nature 
of  the  errand  on  which  she  left  Glasgow. ' ' 

Sir  Patrick  happened  to  be  alone  when  he 
opened  Mr.  Crum's  letter. 

His  first  proceeding,  after  reading  it,  was  to 
consult  the  railway  time-table  hanging  in  the 
hall.  Having  done  this,  he  returned  to  the  li- 
brary— wrote  a  short  note  of  inquiry,  addressed 
to  the  musical  agent — and  rang  the  bell. 

"Miss  Silvester  is  expected  in  London,  Dun- 
can. I  want  a  discreet  person  to  communicate 
with  her.     You  are  the  person. " 

Duncan  bowed.  Sir  Patrick  handed  him  the 
note. 

"If  you  start  at  once  you  will  be  in  time  to 
catch  the  train.  Go  to  that  address,  and  inquire 
for  Miss  Silvester.  If  she  has  arrived,  give  her 
my  compliments,  and  say  I  will  have  the  honor 


IS  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

of  calling  on  her  (on  Mr.  Brinkworth's  behalf) 
at  the  earliest  date  which  she  may  find  it  conven- 
ient to  appoint.  Be  quick  about  it — and  you 
will  have  time  to  get  back  before  the  last  train. 
Have  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brinkworth  returned  from 
their  drive?" 

"No,  Sir  Patrick." 

Pending  the  return  of  Arnold  and  Blanche, 
Sir  Patrick  looked  at  Mr.  Crum's  letter  for  the 
second  time. 

He  was  not  quite  satisfied  that  the  pecuniary 
motive  was  really  the  motive  at  the  bottom  of 
Anne's  journey  south.  Remembering  that  Geof- 
frey's trainers  had  removed  him  to  the  neighbor- 
hood of  London,  he  was  inclined  to  doubt  whether 
some  serious  quarrel  had  not  taken  place  between 
Anne  and  Mrs.  Glenarm — and  whether  some  di- 
rect appeal  to  Geoffrey  himself  might  not  be  in 
contemplation  as  the  result.  In  that  event.  Sir 
Patrick's  advice  and  assistance  would  be  placed, 
without  scruple,  at  Miss  Silvester's  disposal.  By 
asserting  her  claim,  in  opposition  to  the  claim  of 
Mrs.  Glenarm,  she  was  also  asserting  herself  to 
be  an  unmarried  woman,  and  was  thus  serving 
Blanche's  interests  as  well  as  her  own.  "I  owe 
it  to  Blanche  to  help  her,"  thought  Sir  Patrick. 
"And  I  owe  it  to  myseK  to  bring  Geoffrey  Del- 
amayn  to  a  day  of  reckoning  if  I  can." 

The  barking  of  the  dogs  in  the  yard  announced 
the  return  of  the  carriage.  Sir  Patrick  went  out 
to  meet  Arnold  and  Blanche  at  the  gate,  and  tell 
them  the  news. 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  1!) 

Punctual  to  the  time  at  which  he  was  ex- 
pected, the  discreet  Duncan  re-appeared  with  a 
note  from  the  musical  agent. 

Miss  Silvester  had  not  yet  reached  London; 
bat  she  was  expected  to  arrive  not  later  than 
Tuesday  in  the  ensuing  week.  The  agent  had 
already  been  favored  with  her  instructions  to  pa}' 
the  strictest  attention  to  any  commands  received 
from  Sir  Patrick  Lundie.  He  would  take  care 
that  Sir  Patrick's  message  should  be  given  to 
Miss  Silvester  as  soon  as  she  arrived. 

At  last,  then,  there  was  news  to  be  relied  on ! 
At  last  there  was  a  prospect  of  seeing  her! 
Blanche  was  radiant  with  happiness.  Arnold 
was  in  high  spirits  for  the  first  time  since  his 
return  from  Baden. 

Sir  Patrick  tried  hard  to  catch  the  infection 
of  gayety  from  his  young  friends;  but,  to  his 
own  surprise,  not  less  than  to  theirs,  the  effort 
proved  fruitless.  With  the  tide  of  events  turn- 
ing decidedly  in  his  favor — relieved  of  the  neces- 
sity of  taking  a  doubtful  journey  to  Scotland; 
assured  of  obtaining  his  interview  with  Anne 
in  a  few  days'  time — he  was  out  of  spirits  all 
through  the  evening. 

"Still  down  on  our  luck!"  exclaimed  Arnold, 
as  he  and  his  host  finished  their  last  game  of  bil- 
liards, and  parted  for  the  night.  "Surely,  we 
couldn't  wish  for  a  more  promising  prospect 
than  our  prospect  next  week?" 

Sir  Patrick  laid  his  hand  on  Arnold's  shoulder. 

"Let  us  look  indulgently  together, "  he  said, 
in  his  whimsically  grave  way,    "at  the  humili- 


20  WORKS    OF    WILKIE   COLLINS. 

ating  spectacle  of  an  old  man's  folly.  I  feel  at 
this  moment,  Arnold,  as  if  I  would  give  every- 
thing that  I  possess  in  the  world  to  have  passed 
over  next  week,  and  to  be  landed  safely  in  the 
time  beyond  it. ' ' 

"But  why?" 

"There  is  the  folly!  I  can't  tell  why.  With 
every  reason  to  be  in  better  spirits  than  usual,  I 
am  unaccountably,  irrationally,  invincibly  de- 
pressed. What  are  we  to  conclude  from  that? 
Am  I  the  object  of  a  supernatural  warning  of 
misfortune  to  come?  Or  am  I  the  object  of  a 
temporary  derangement  of  the  functions  of  the 
liver?  There  is  the  question.  Who  is  to  decide 
it?  How  contemptible  is  humanity,  Arnold, 
rightly  understood !  Give  me  my  candle,  and 
let's  hope  it's  the  liver." 


EIGHTH  SCENE.— THE  PANTRY. 


CHAPTER  THE  THIRTY-NINTH. 

ANNE    WINS    A    VICTORY. 

On  a  certain  evening  in  the  month  of  Septem- 
ber (at  that  period  of  the  month  when  Arnold 
and  Blanche  were  traveling  back  from  Baden  to 
Ham  Farm)  an  ancient  man — with  one  eye  filmy 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  21 

and  blind,  and  one  eye  moist  and  merry— sat 
alone  in  the  pantry  of  the  Harp  of  Scotland  Inn, 
Perth,  pounding  the  sugar  softly  in  a  glass  of 
whisky-punch.  He  has  hitherto  been  personally 
distinguished  in  these  pages  as  the  self-appointed 
father  of  Anne  Silvester  and  the  humble  servant 
of  Blanche  at  the  dance  at  Swanhaven  Lodge. 
He  now  dawns  on  the  view  in  amicable  relations 
with  a  third  lady,  and  assumes  the  mystic 
character  of  Mrs.  Glenarm's  "Friend  in  the 
Dark."  Arriving  in  Perth  the  day  after  the 
festivities  at  Swanhaven,  Bishopriggs  proceeded 
to  the  Harp  of  Scotland — at  which  establishment 
for  the  reception  of  travelers  he  possessed  the 
advantage  of  being  known  to  the  landlord  as 
Mrs.  Inchbare's  right-hand  man,  and  of  stand- 
ing high  on  the  head-waiter's  list  of  old  and 
intimate  friends. 

Inquiring  for  the  waiter  first  by  the  name  of 
Thomas  (otherwise  Tammy)  Pennyquick,  Bish- 
opriggs found  his  friend  in  sore  distress  of  body 
and  mind.  Contending  vainly  against  the  dis- 
abling advances  of  rheumatism,  Thomas  Penny- 
quick  ruefully  contemplated  the  prospect  of 
being  laid  up  at  home  by  a  long  illness — with  a 
wife  and  children  to  support,  and  with  the  emol- 
uments attached  to  his  position  passing  into  the 
pockets  of  the  first  stranger  who  could  be  found 
to  occupy  his  place  at  the  inn. 

Hearing  this  doleful  story,  Bishopriggs  cun- 
ningly saw  his  way  to  serving  his  own  private 
interests  by  performing  the  part  of  Thomas  Pen- 
nyquick's  generous  and  devoted  friend. 


22  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

He  forthwith  offered  to  fill  the  place,  without 
taking  the  emoluments  of  the  invalided  head- 
waiter — on  the  understanding,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  that  the  landlord  consented  to  board  and 
lodge  him  free  of  expense  at  the  inn.  The  land- 
lord having  readily  accepted  this  condition, 
Thomas  Pennyquick  retired  to  the  bosom  of  his 
family.  And  there  was  Bishopriggs,  doubly  se- 
cure behind  a  respectable  position  and  a  virtuous 
action,  against  all  likelihood  of  suspicion  falling 
on  him,  as  a  stranger  in  Perth — in  the  event  of 
his  correspondence  with  Mrs.  Glenarm  being 
made  the  object  of  legal  investigation  on  the  part 
of  her  friends ! 

Having  opened  the  campaign  in  this  masterly 
manner,  the  same  sagacious  foresight  had  dis- 
tinguished the  operations  of  Bishopriggs  through- 
out. 

His  correspondence  with  Mrs.  Glenarm  was 
invariably  written  with  the  left  hand — the  writ- 
ing thus  produced  defying  detection,  in  all  cases, 
as  bearing  no  resemblance  of  character  whatever 
to  writing  produced  by  persons  who  habitually 
use  the  other  hand.  A  no  less  far-sighted  cun- 
ning distinguished  his  proceedings  in  answering 
the  advertisements  which  the  lawyers  duly  in- 
serted in  the  newspaper.  He  appointed  hours  at 
which  he  was  employed  on  business-errands  for 
the  inn,  and  places  which  lay  on  the  way  to 
those  errands,  for  his  meetings  with  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm's  representatives:  a  pass- word  being  deter- 
mined on,  as  usual  in  such  cases,  by  exchanging 
which  the  persons  concerned  could  discover  each 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  Zo 

other.  However  carefully  the  lawyers  might  set 
the  snare — whether  they  had  their  necessary 
"witness"  disguised  as  an  artist  sketching  in 
the  neighborhood,  or  as  an  old  woman  selling 
fruit,  or  what  not — the  wary  eye  of  Bishopriggs 
detected  it.  He  left  the  pass- word  unspoken ;  he 
went  his  way  on  his  errand ;  he  was  followed  on 
suspicion;  and  he  was  discovered  to  be  only  "a 
respectable  person, ' '  charged  with  a  message  by 
the  landlord  of  the  Harp  of  Scotland  Inn. 

To  a  man  intrenched  behind  such  precautions 
as  these,  the  chance  of  being  detected  might 
well  be  reckoned  among  the  last  of  all  the 
chances  that  could  possibly  happen. 

Discovery  was,  nevertheless,  advancing  on 
Bishopriggs  from  a  quarter  which  had  not  been 
included  in  his  calculations.  Anne  Silvester  was 
in  Perth;  forewarned  by  the  newspaper  (as  Sir 
Patrick  had  guessed)  that  the  letters  offered  to 
Mrs.  Glenarm  were  the  letters  between  Geoffrey 
and  herself,  which  she  had  lost  at  Craig  Fernie, 
and  bent  on  clearing  up  the  suspicion  which 
pointed  to  Bishopriggs  as  the  person  who  was 
trying  to  turn  the  correspondence  to  pecuniary 
account.  The  inquiries  made  for  him,  at  Anne's 
request,  as  soon  as  she  arrived  in  the  town,  openly 
described  his  name,  and  his  former  position  as 
head- waiter  at  Craig  Fernie— and  thus  led  easily 
to  the  discovery  of  him,  in  his  publicly  avowed 
character  of  Thomas  Pennyquick's  devoted 
friend.  Toward  evening,  on  the  day  after  she 
reached  Perth,  the  news  came  to  Anne  that  Bish- 
opriggs was  in  service  at  the  inn  known  as  the 


24  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Harp  of  Scotland.  The  landlord  of  the  hotel  at 
which  she  was  staying  inquired  whether  he 
should  send  a  message  for  her.  She  answered, 
"No,  I  will  take  my  message  myself.  All  I 
want  is  a  person  to  show  me  the  way  to  the  inn. " 

Secluded  in  the  solitude  of  the  head-waiter's 
pantry,  Bishopriggs  sat  peacefully  melting  the 
sugar  in  his  whisky-punch. 

It  was  the  hour  of  the  evening  at  which  a  peri- 
od of  tranquillity  generally  occurred  before  what 
was  called  the  "night  business"  of  the  house  be- 
gan. Bishopriggs  was  accustomed  to  drink  and 
meditate  daily  in  this  interval  of  repose.  He 
tasted  the  punch,  and  smiled  contentedly  as  he 
set  down  his  glass.  The  prospect  before  him 
looked  fairly  enough.  He  had  outwitted  the 
lawyers  in  the  preliminary  negotiations  thus  far. 
All  that  was  needful  now  was  to  wait  till  the 
terror  of  a  public  scandal  (sustained  by  occa- 
sional letters  from  her  "Friend  in  the  Dark") 
had  its  due  effect  on  Mrs.  Glenarm,  and  hurried 
her  into  paying  the  purchase- money  for  the  cor- 
respondence with  her  own  hand.  "Let  it  breed 
in  the  brain,"  he  thought,  "and  the  siller  will 
soon  come  out  o'  the  purse." 

His  reflections  were  interrupted  by  the  appear- 
ance of  a  slovenly  maid- servant,  with  a  cotton 
handkerchief  tied  round  her  head,  and  an  un- 
cleaned  saucepan  in  her  hand. 

"Eh,  Maister  Bishopriggs,"  cried  the  girl, 
"here's  a  braw  young  leddy  speerin'  for  ye  by 
yer  ain  name  at  the  door. ' ' 


MAN   AND   WIFE,  25 

"A  leddy?"  repeated  Bishopriggs,  with  a 
look  of  virtuous  disgust.  "Yedonnert  ne'er-do- 
weel,  do  you  come  to  a  decent,  'sponsible  man 
like  me,  wi'  sic  a  Cyprian  overture  as  that? 
What  d'ye  tak'  me  for?  Mark  Antony  that  lost 
the  world  for  love  (the  mair  f ule  he !)  ?  or  Don 
Jovanny  that  counted  his  concubines  by  hun- 
dreds, like  the  blessed  Solomon  himself?  Awa' 
wi'  ye  toyer  pots  and  pans;  and  bid  the  wander- 
ing Venus  that  sent  ye  go   spin!" 

Before  the  girl  could  answer  she  was  gently 
pulled  aside  from  the  door-way,  and  Bishopriggs, 
thunderstruck,  saw  Anne  Silvester  standing  in 
her  place. 

"You  had  better  tell  the  servant  I  am  no  stran- 
ger to  you,"  said  Anne,  looking  toward  the 
kitchen-maid,  who  stood  in  the  passage  staring 
at  her  in  stolid  amazement. 

"My  ain  sister's  child!"  cried  Bishopriggs, 
lying  with  his  customary  readiness.  "Go  yer 
ways,  Maggie.  The  bonny  lassie's  my  ain  kith 
and  kin.  The  tongue  o'  scandal,  I  trow,  has 
naething  to  say  against  that. — Lord  save  us 
and  guide  us!"  he  added  in  another  tone,  as  the 
girl  closed  the  door  on  them,  "what  brings  ye 
here?" 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  I  am  not 
very  well ;  I  must  wait  a  little  first.  Give  me  a 
chair." 

Bishopriggs  obeyed  in  silence.  His  one  avail- 
able eye  rested  on  Anne,  as  he  produced  the  chair, 
with  an  uneasy  and  suspicious  attention.  "I'm 
wanting   to  know  one  thing,"   he  said.      "By 


26  WORKS    OF    WTLKIE    COLLINS. 

what  meeraiculous  means,  young  madam,  do  ye 
happen  to  ha'  fund  yer  way  to  this  inn?" 

Anne  told  him  how  her  inquiries  had  been 
made,  and  what  the  result  had  been,  plainly  and 
frankly.  The  clouded  face  of  Bishopriggs  began 
to  clear  again. 

"Hech!  hech!"  he  exclaimed,  recovering  all 
his  native  impudence,  "I  hae  had  occasion  to  re- 
mark already,  to  anither  leddy  than  yersel', 
that  it's  seemply  mairvelous  hoo  a  man's  ain 
gude  deeds  find  him  oot  in  this  lower  warld  o' 
ours.  I  hae  dune  a  gude  deed  by  pure  Tammy 
Pennyquick,  and  here's  a'  Pairth  ringing  wi' 
the  report  o'  it;  and  Sawmuel  Bishopriggs  sae 
weel  known  that  ony  stranger  has  only  to  ask, 
and  find  him.  Understand,  I  beseech  ye,  that 
it's  no  hand  o'  mine  that  pets  this  new  feather 
in  my  cap.  As  a  gude  Calvinist,  my  saul's  clear 
o'  the  smallest  figment  o'  belief  in  Warks.  When 
I  look  at  my  ain  celeebrity  I  joost  ask,  as  the 
Psawmist  asked  before  me, '  Why  do  the  heathen 
rage,  and  the  people  imagine  a  vain  thing?'  It 
seems  ye've  something  to  say  to  me,"  he  added, 
suddenly  reverting  to  the  object  of  Anne's  visit. 
"Is  it  humanly  possible  that  ye  can  ha'  come  a' 
the  way  to  Pairth  for  naething  but  that." 

The  expression  of  suspicion  began  to  show  it- 
self again  in  his  face.  Concealing  as  she  best 
might  the  disgust  that  he  inspired  in  her,  Anne 
stated  her  errand  in  the  most  direct  manner,  and 
in  the  fewest  possible  words. 

"I  have  come  here  to  ask  you  for  something," 
she  said. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  27 

"Ay?  ay?  What  may  it  be  ye're  wanting  of 
me?" 

' '  I  want  the  letter  I  lost  at  Craig  Fernie. ' ' 

Even  the  solidly-founded  self-possession  of 
Bishopriggs  himself  was  shaken  by  the  startling 
directness  of  that  attack  on  it.  His  glib  tongue 
was  paralyzed  for  the  moment.  "I  dinna  ken 
what  ye're  drivin'  at,"  he  said,  after  an  inter- 
val, with  a  sullen  consciousness  that  he  had  been 
all  but  tricked  into  betraying  himself. 

The  change  in  his  manner  convinced  Anne  that 
she  had  found  in  Bishopriggs  the  person  of  whom 
she  was  in  search. 

"You  have  got  my  letter,"  she  said,  sternly 
insisting  on  the  truth.  "And  you  are  trying  to 
turn  it  to  a  disgraceful  use,  I  won't  allow  you 
to  make  a  market  of  my  private  affairs.  You 
have  offered  a  letter  of  mine  for  sale  to  a  stranger. 
I  insist  on  your  restoring  it  to  me  before  I  leave 
this  room!" 

Bishopriggs  hesitated  again.  His  first  sus- 
picion that  Anne  had  been  privately  instructed 
by  Mrs.  Glenarm's  lawyers  returned  to  his  mind 
as  a  suspicion  confirmed.  He  felt  the  vast  im- 
portance of  making  a  cautious  reply. 

"I'll  no'  waste  precious  time,"  he  said,  after 
a  moment's  consideration  with  himself,  "in 
brushing  awa'  the  fawse  breath  o'  scandal,  when 
it  passes  my  way.  It  blaws  to  nae  purpose,  my 
young  leddy,  when  it  blaws  on  an  honest  man 
like  me.  Fie  for  shame  on  ye  for  saying  what 
ye've  joost  said — to  me  that  was  a  fether  to  ye 
at  Craig  Fernie!     Wha'  set  ye  on  to  it?     Will  it 


^8  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

be  mail  or  woman  that's  misca'ed  me  behind  my 
back?" 

Anne  took  the  Glasgow  newspaper  from  the 
pocket  of  her  traveling-cloak,  and  placed  it  be- 
fore him,  open  at  the  paragraph  which  described 
the  act  of  extortion  attempted  on  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

"I  have  found  there,"  she  said,  "all  that  I 
want  to  know." 

"May  a'  the  tribe  o'  editors,  preenters,  paper- 
makers,  news-venders,  and  the  like,  bleeze  to^ 
gether  in  the  pit  o'  Tophet!"  With  this  devout 
aspiration — internally  felt,  not  openly  uttered — 
Bishopriggs  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  read  the 
passage  pointed  out  to  him.  "I  see  naething 
here  touching  the  name  o'  Sawmuel  Bishopriggs, 
or  the  matter  o'  ony  loss  ye  may  or  may  not  ha' 
had  at  Craig  Fernie,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
done ;  still  defending  his  position,  with  a  resolu- 
tion worthy  of  a  better  cause. 

Anne's  pride  recoiled  at  the  prospect  of  pro- 
longing the  discussion  with  him.  She  rose  to 
her  feet,  and  said  her  last  words. 

"I  have  learned  enough  by  this  time,"  she  an- 
swered, "to  know  that  the  one  argument  that 
prevails  with  you  is  the  argument  of  money.  If 
money  will  spare  me  the  hateful  necessity  of  dis- 
puting with  you— poor  as  I  am,  money  you  shall 
have.  Be  silent,  if  you  please.  You  are  per- 
sonally interested  in  what  I  have  to  say  next. ' ' 

She  opened  her  purse,  and  took  a  five-pound 
note  from  it. 

"If  you  choose  to  own  the  truth,  and  produce 
the  letter,"  she  resumed,  "I  will  give  j^ou  this, 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  2!) 

as  your  reward  for  finding-  and  restoring  to  me 
something  that  I  had  lost.  If  you  persist  in  your 
present  prevarication,  I  can,  and  will,  make  that 
sheet  of  note-paper  you  have  stolen  from  me 
nothing  but  waste  paper  in  your  hands.  You 
have  threatened  Mrs.  Glenarm  with  my  inter- 
ference. Suppose  I  go  to  Mrs.  Glenarm?  Sup- 
pose I  interfere  before  the  week  is  out?  Sup- 
pose I  have  other  letters  of  Mr.  Delamayn's  in 
my  possession,  and  produce  them  to  speak  for 
me?  What  has  Mrs.  Glenarm  to  purchase  of 
you  then  ?     Answer  me  that!" 

The  color  rose  on  her  pale  face.  Her  eyes,  dim 
and  weary  when  she  entered  the  room,  looked 
him  brightly  through  and  through  in  immeas- 
urable contempt.  "Answer  me  that!"  she  re- 
peated, with  a  burst  of  her  old  energy  which  re- 
vealed the  fire  and  passion  of  the  woman's 
nature,  not  quenched  even  yet ! 

If  Bishopriggs  had  a  merit,  it  was  a  rare 
merit,  as  men  go,  of  knowing  when  he  was 
beaten.  If  he  had  an  accomplishment,  it  was 
the  accomplishm'ent  of  retiring  defeated,  with 
all  the  honors  of  war. 

"Mercy  presairve  us!"  he  exclaimed,  in  the 
most  innocent  manner.  "Is  it  even  You  Yersel' 
that  writ  the  letter  to  the  man  ca'ed  Jaffray  Del- 
amayn,  and  got  the  wee  bit  answer  in  pencil,  on 
the  blank  page?  Hoo,  in  Heeven's  name,  was 
I  to  know  that  was  the  letter  ye  were  after  when 
ye  cam'  in  here?  Did  jq  ever  tell  me  ye  were 
Anne  Silvester,  at  the  hottle?  Never  ance! 
Was  the  puir  feckless  husband-creature  ye  had 


30  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

wi'  ye  at  the  inn,  Jaffray  Delainayn?  Jaffray 
wad  mak'  twa  o'  him,  as  my  ain  eyes  ha'  seen. 
Gi'  ye  back  yer  letter?  My  certie!  noo  I  know 
it  is  yer  letter,  I'll  gi'  it  back  wi'  a'  the  pleasure 
in  life!" 

He  opened  his  pocket-book,  and  took  it  out, 
with  an  alacrity  worthy  of  the  honestest  man 
in  Christendom — and  (more  wonderful  still)  he 
looked  with  a  perfectly  assumed  expression  of 
indifference  at  the  five-pound  note  in  Anne's 
hand. 

"Hoot!  toot!"  he  said,  "I'm  no'  that  clear  in 
my  mind  that  I'm  free  to  tak'  yer  mone}^.  Eh, 
weel!  well!  I'll  een  receive  it,  if  ye  like,  as  a 
bit  memento  o'  the  time  when  I  was  o'  some 
sma'  sairvice  to  ye  at  the  hottle.  Ye'U  no' 
mind,"  he  added,  suddenly  returning  to  busi- 
ness, "writin'  me  joost  a  linB — in  the  way  o'  re- 
ceipt, 5^e  ken — to  clear  me  o'  ony  future  suspicion 
in  the  matter  o'  the  letter?" 

Anne  threw  down  the  bank-note  on  the  table 
near  which  they  were  standing,  and  snatched 
the  letter  from  him. 

"You  need  no  receipt,"  she  answered.  "There 
shall  be  no  letter  to  bear  witness  against  you!" 

She  lifted  her  other  hand  to  tear  it  in  pieces. 
Bishopriggs  caught  her  by  both  wrists,  at  the 
same  moment,  and  held  her  fast. 

"Bide  a  wee!"  he  said.  "Ye  don't  get  the 
letter,  young  madam,  without  the  receipt.  It 
may  be  a'  the  same  to  you,  now  ye've  married 
the  other  man,  whether  Jaffray  Delamayn  ance 
promised  ye  fair  in  the  by-gone  time  or  no.  But, 


MAN    AND    WIPE.  31 

my  certie!  it's  a  matter  o'  some  moment  to  me, 
that  ye've  chairged  wi'  stealin'  the  letter,  and 
making  a  market  o't,  and  Lord  knows  what  be- 
sides, that  I  suld  hae  yer  ain  acknowledgment 
for  it  in  black  and  white.  Gi'  me  my  bit  receipt 
— and  een  do  as  ye  will  with  yer  letter  after 
that!" 

Anne's  hold  of  the  letter  relaxed.  She  let 
Bishopriggs  repossess  himself  of  it  as  it  dropped 
on  the  floor  between  them,  without  making  an 
effort  to  prevent  him. 

"It  may  be  a'  the  same  to  you,  now  ye've 
married  the  other  man,  whether  Jaffray  Dela- 
mayn  ance  promised  ye  fair  in  the  by-gone  time 
or  no."  Those  words  presented  Anne's  position 
before  her  in  a  light  in  which  she  had  not  seen  it 
yet.  She  had  truly  expressed  the  loathing  that 
Geoffrey  now  inspired  in  her,  when  she  had  de- 
clared in  her  letter  to  Arnold,  that,  even  if  he 
offered  her  marriage,  in  atonement  for  the  past, 
she  would  rather  be  what  she  was  than  be  his 
wife.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her,  until  this 
moment,  that  others  would  misinterpret  the  sen- 
sitive pride  which  had  prompted  the  abandon- 
ment of  her  claim  on  the  man  who  had  ruined 
her.  It  had  never  been  brought  home  to  her 
until  now,  that  if  she  left  him  contemptuously 
to  go  his  own  way,  and  sell  himself  to  the  first 
woman  who  had  money  enough  to  buy  him,  her 
conduct  would  sanction  the  false  conclusion  that 
she  was  powerless  to  interfere,  because  she  was 
married  already  to  another  man.  The  color  that 
had  risen  in  her  face  vanished,  and  left  it  deadly 
Vol.  4  .  2-- 


32  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

pale  again.  Slie  began  to  see  that  the  purpose 
of  her  journey  to  the  North  was  not  completed 
yet. 

"I  will  give  you  your  receipt,"  she  said. 
' '  Tell  me  what  to  write,  and  it  shall  be  written. ' ' 

Bishopriggs  dictated  the  receipt.  She  wrote 
and  signed  it.  He  put  it  in  his  pocket-book  with 
the  five-pound  note,  and  handed  her  the  letter  in 
exchange. 

"Tear  it  if  ye  will,"  he  said.  "It  matters 
nae thing  to  ?ne.'" 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated.  A  sudden  shud- 
dering shook  her  from  head  to  foot— the  fore- 
warning, it  might  be,  of  the  influence  which 
that  letter,  saved  from  destruction  by  a  hair- 
breadth, was  destined  to  exercise  on  her  life  to 
come.  She  recovered  herself,  and  folded  her 
cloak  closer  to  her,  as  if  she  had  felt  a  passing 
chill. 

"No,"  she  said;  "I  will  keep  the  letter." 

She  folded  it  and  put  it  in  the  pocket  of  her 
dress.  Then  turned  to  go — and  stopped  at  the 
door. 

"One  thing  more,"  she  added.  "Do  you 
know  Mrs.  Glenarm's  present  address?" 

"Ye're  no'  reely  going  to  Mistress  Glenarm?" 

"That  is  no  concern  of  yours.  You  can  aii- 
s wer  my  question  or  not,  as  you  please. ' ' 

"Eh,  my  leddy!  yer  temper's  no'  what  it  used 
to  be  in  the  auld  times  at  the  hottle.  Aweel ! 
aweel!  3'^e  ha'  gi'en  me  yer  money,  and  I'll  een 
gi'  ye  back  gude  measure  for  it,  on  my  side.  Mis- 
tress Glenarm's  awa'  in  private — incog,  as  they 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  33 

say — to  Jaffray  Delamayn's  brither  at  Swan- 
haven  Lodge.  Ye  may  rely  on  the  information, 
and  it's  no'  that  easy  to  come  at  either.  They've 
keepit  it  a  secret,  as  they  think,  from  a'  the 
warld.  Hech!  hech!  Tammy  Pennyquick's 
youngest  but  twa  is  page-boy  at  the  hoose  where 
the  leddy's  been  veesitin',  on  the  outskirts  o' 
Pairth.  Keep  a  secret  if  ye  can  frae  the  pawky 
ears  o'  yer  domestics  in  the  servants'  hall! — Eh! 
she's  aff,  without  a  word  at  parting!"  he  ex- 
claimed as  Anne  left  him  without  ceremonj'^  in 
the  middle  of  his  dissertation  on  secrets  and  ser- 
vants' halls.  "I  trow  I  ha'  ga,en  out  for  wool, 
and  come  back  shorn,"  he  added,  reflecting 
grimly  on  the  disastrous  overthrow  of  the  prom- 
ising speculation  on  which  he  had  embarked. 
"My  certie!  there  was  naething  left  for't,  when 
madam's  fingers  had  grippit  me,  but  to  slip 
through  them  as  cannily  as  I  could.  What's 
Jaffray 's  marrying,  or  no'  marrying,  to  do  wi' 
her  f  he  wondered,  reverting  to  the  question 
which  Anne  had  put  to  him  at  parting.  "And 
whar's  the  sense  o'  her  errand,  if  she's  reely  bent 
on  finding  her  way  to  Mistress  Glenarm?" 

Whatever  the  sense  of  her  errand  might  be, 
Anne's  next  proceeding  proved  that  she  was 
really  bent  on  it.  After  resting  two  days,  she 
left  Perth  by  the  first  train  in  the  morning,  for 
Swanhaveu  Lodge. 


34  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 


NINTH  SCENE.— THE  MUSIC-ROOM. 


CHAPTER  THE   FORTIETH. 

JULIUS   MAKES    MISCHIEF. 

Julius  Delamayn  was  alone;  idly  saunter- 
ing to  and  fro,  with  his  violin  in  his  hand,  on  the 
terrace  at  Swanhaven  Lodge. 

The  first  mellow  light  of  evening  was  in  the 
sky.  It  was  the  close  of  the  day  on  which  Anne 
Silvester  had  left  Perth. 

Some  hours  earlier,  Julius  had  sacrificed  him- 
self to  the  duties  of  his  political  position — as 
made  for  him  by  his  father.  He  had  submitted 
to  the  dire  necessity  of  delivering  an  oration  to 
the  electors,  at  a  public  meeting  in  the  neighbor- 
ing town  of  Kirkandrew.  A  detestable  atmos- 
phere to  breathe ;  a  disorderly  audience  to  ad- 
dress ;  insolent  opposition  to  conciliate ;  imbecile 
inquiries  to  answer;  brutish  interruptions  to 
endure ;  greedy  petitioners  to  pacify ;  and  dirty 
hands  to  shake :  these  are  the  stages  by  which 
the  aspiring  English  gentleman  is  compelled  to 
travel  on  the  journey  which  leads  him  from  the 
modest  obscurity  of  private  life  to  the  glorious 
publicity  of  the  House  of  Commons.  Julius 
paid  the  preliminary  penalties  of  a  political  first 
appearance,  as  exacted  by  free  institutions,  with 
the  necessary  patience;  and  returned  to  the  wel- 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  36 

come  shelter  of  home,  more  indifferent,  if  possi- 
ble, to  the  attractions  of  Parliamentary  distinc- 
tion than  when  he  set  out.  The  discord  of  the 
roaring  "people"  (still  echoing  in  his  ears)  had 
sharpened  his  customary  sensibility  to  the  poetry 
of  sound,  as  composed  by  Mozart,  and  as  inter- 
preted by  piano  and  violin.  Possessing  himself 
of  his  beloved  instrument,  he  had  gone  out  on 
the  terrace  to  cool  himself  in  the  evening  air, 
pending  the  arrival  of  the  servant  whom  he  had 
summoned  by  the  music-room  bell.  The  man 
appeared  at  the  glass  door  which  led  into  the 
room;  and  reported,  in  answer  to  his  master's 
inquiry,  that  Mrs.  Julius  Delamayn  was  out 
paying  visits,  and  was  not  expected  to  return  for 
another  hour  at  least. 

Julius  groaned  in  spirit.  The  finest  music  which 
Mozart  has  written  for  the  violin  associates  that 
instrument  with  the  piano.  Without  the  wife 
to  help  him,  the  husband  was  mute.  After  an 
instant's  consideration,  Julius  hit  on  an  idea 
which  promised,  in  some  degree,  to  remedy  the 
disaster  of  Mrs.  Delamayn's  absence  from  home. 

"Has  Mrs.  Glenarm  gone  out,  too?"  he  asked. 

"No,  sir." 

"My  compliments.  If  Mrs.  Glenarm  has 
nothing  else  to  do,  will  she  be  so  kind  as  to  come 
to  me  in  the  music-room?" 

The  servant  went  away  with  his  message. 
Julius  seated  himself  on  one  of  the  terrace 
benches,  and  began  to  tune  his  violin. 

Mrs.  Glenarm — rightly  reported  by  Bishop- 
riggs  as  having  privately  taken  refuge  from  her 


36  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

anonymous  correspondent  at  Svvanhaven  Lodge 
— was,  musically  speaking,  far  from  being  an 
efficient  substitute  for  Mrs.  Delamayn.  Julius 
possessed,  in  his  wife,  one  of  the  few  players  on 
the  piano-forte  under  whose  subtle  touch  that 
shallow  and  soulless  instrument  becomes  inspired 
with  expression  not  its  own,  and  produces  music 
instead  of  noise.  The  fine  organization  which 
can  work  this  miracle  had  not  been  bestowed  on 
Mrs.  Glenarm.  She  had  been  carefully  taught; 
and  she  was  to  be  trusted  to  play  correctly — and 
that  was  all.  Julius,  hungry  for  music,  and  re- 
signed to  circumstances,  asked  for  no  more. 

The  servant  returned  with  his  answer.  Mrs. 
Glenarm  would  join  Mr.  Delamayn  in  the  music- 
room  in  ten  minutes'  time. 

Julius  rose,  relieved,  and  resumed  his  saunter- 
ing walk ;  now  playing  little  snatches  of  music ; 
now  stopping  to  look  at  the  flowers  on  the  terrace, 
with  an  eye  that  enjoyed  their  beauty,  and  a 
hand  that  fondled  them  with  caressing  touch.  If 
Imperial  Parliament  had  seen  him  at  that  mo- 
ment, Imperial  Parliament  must  have  given  no- 
tice of  a  question  to  his  illustrious  father :  Is  it 
possible,  my  lord,  that  you  can  have  begotten 
such  a  Member  as  this? 

After  stopping  for  a  moment  to  tighten  one  of 
the  strings  of  his  violin,  Julius,  raising  his  head 
from  the  instrument,  was  surprised  to  see  a  lady 
approaching  him  on  the  terrace.  Advancing  to 
meet  her,  and  perceiving  that  she  was  a  total 
stranger  to  him,  he  assumed  that  she  was,  in  all 
probability,  a  visitor  to  his  wife. 


MAN   AND    WIFE.  37 

"Have  I  the  honor  of  speaking  to  a  friend  of 
Mrs.  Delamayn's?"  he  asked.  "My  wife  is  not 
at  home,  I  am  sorry  to  say." 

"I  am  a  stranger  to  Mrs.  Delamayn,"  the 
lady  answered.  ' '  The  servant  informed  me  that 
she  had  gone  out ;  and  that  I  should  find  Mr. 
Delamayn  here." 

Julius  bowed — and  waited  to  hear  more. 

' '  I  must  beg  you  to  forgive  my  intrusion, ' '  the 
stranger  went  on.  "My  object  is  to  ask  permis- 
sion to  see  a  lady  who  is,  I  have  been  informed, 
a  guest  in  your  house." 

The  extraordinary  formality  of  the  request 
rather  puzzled  Julius. 

"Do  you  mean  Mrs.  Glenarm?"  he  asked. 

"yes." 

"Pray  don't  think  any  permission  necessary. 
A  friend  of  Mrs.  Glenarm's  may  take  her  wel- 
come for  granted  in  this  house." 

"I  am  not  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Glenarm.  I  am  a 
total  stranger  to  her. ' ' 

This  made  the  cerenxonious  request  preferred 
by  the  lady  a  little  more  intelligible — but  it  left 
the  lady's  object  in  wishing  to  speak  to  Mrs. 
Glenarm  still  in  the  dark.  Julius'politely  waited, 
until  it  pleased  her  to  proceed  further,  and  ex- 
plain herself.  The  explanation  did  not  appear  to 
be  an  easy  one  to  give.  Her  eyes  dropped  to  the 
ground.     She  hesitated  painfully. 

"My  name — if  I  mention  it,"  she  resumed, 
without  looking  up,  "may  possibly  inform 
you — "  She  paused.  Her  color  came  and  went. 
She  hesitated  again ;    struggled  with  her  agita- 


38  WORKS   OF   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

tion,  and  controlled  it.  "I  am  Anne  Silvester," 
she  said,  suddenly  raising  her  pale  face,  and 
suddenly  steadying  her  trembling  voice. 

Julius  started,  and  looked  at  her  in  silent  sur- 
prise. 

The  name  was  doubly  known  to  him.  Not 
long  since,  he  had  heard  it  from  his  father's 
lips,  at  his  father's  bedside.  Lord  Holchester 
had  charged  him,  had  earnestly  charged  him,  to 
bear  that  name  in  mind,  and  to  help  the  woman 
who  bore  it,  if  the  woman  ever  applied  to  him  in 
time  to  come.  Again,  he  had  heard  the  name, 
more  lately,  associated  scandalously  with  the 
name  of  his  brother.  On  the  receipt  of  the  first 
of  the  anonymous  letters  sent  to  her,  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm  had  not  only  summoned  Geoffrey  himself  to 
refute  the  aspersion  cast  upon  him,  but  had  for- 
warded a  private  copy  of  the  letter  to  his  rela- 
tives at  Swanhaven.  Geoffrey's  defense  had  not 
entirely  satisfied  Julius  that  his  brother  was  free 
from  blame.  As  he  now  looked  at  Anne  Sil- 
vester, the  doubt  returned  upon  him  strength- 
ened— almost  confirmed.  Was  this  woman — so 
modest,  so  gentle,  so  simply  and  unaffectedly 
refined — the  shameless  adventuress  denounced 
by  Geoffrey,  as  claiming  him  on  the  strength  of 
a  foolish  flirtation ;  knowing  herself,  at  the  time, 
to  be  privately  married  to  another  man?  "Was 
this  woman — with  the  voice  of  a  lady,  the  look 
of  a  lady,  the  manner  of  a  lady — in  league  (as 
Geoffrey  had  declared)  with  the  illiterate  vaga- 
bond who  was  attempting  to  extort  money 
anonymously  from  Mrs.  Glenarm?     Impossible! 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  39 

Making  every  allowance  for  the  proverbial  de- 
ceitf ulness  of  appearances,  impossible ! 

"Your  name  has  been  mentioned  to  me,"  said 
Julius,  answering  her  after  a  momentary  pause. 
His  instincts,  as  a  gentleman,  made  him  shrink 
from  referring  to  the  association  of  her  name 
with  the  name  of  his  brother.  '*My  father  men- 
tioned you,"  he  added,  considerately  explaining 
his  knowledge  of  her  in  that  way,  "when  I  last 
saw  him  in  London." 

"Your  father!"  She  came  a  step  nearer,  with 
a  look  of  distrust  as  well  as  a  look  of  astonish- 
ment in  her  face.  "Your  father  is  Lord  Hol- 
chester — is  he  not?" 

"Yes." 

"What  made  him  speak  of  me  .^" 

"He  was  ill  at  the  time,"  Julius  answered. 
"And  he  had  been  thinking  of  events  in  his  past 
life  with  which  I  am  entirely  unacquainted.  He 
said  he  had  known  your  father  and  mother.  He 
desired  me,  if  you  were  ever  in  want  of  any  as- 
sistance, to  place  my  services  at  your  disposal. 
When  he  expressed  that  wish,  he  spoke  very 
earnestly — he  gave  me  the  impression  that  there 
was  a  feeling  of  regret  associated  with  the  recol- 
lections on  which  he  had  been  dwelling." 

Slowly,  and  in  silence,  Anne  drew  back  to  the 
low  wall  of  the  terrace  close  by.  She  rested  one 
hand  on  it  to  support  herself.  Julius  had  said 
words  of  terrible  import  without  a  suspicion  of 
what  he  had  done.  Never  until  now  had  Anne 
Silvester  known  that  the  man  who  had  betrayed 
her  was  the  son  of  that  other  man  whose  discov- 


40  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

ery  of  the  flaw  in  the  marriage  had  ended  in  the 
betrayal  of  her  mother  before  her.  She  felt  the 
shock  of  the  revelation  with  a  chill  of  supersti- 
tious dread.  Was  the  chain  of  a  fatality  wound 
invisibly  round  her?  Turn  which  waj^  she 
might,  was  she  still  going  darkly  on,  in  the 
track  of  her  dead  mother,  to  an  appointed  and 
hereditary  doom?  Present  things  passed  from 
her  view  as  the  awful  doubt  cast  its  shadow  over 
her  mind.  She  lived  again  for  a  moment  in  the 
time  when  she  was  a  child.  She  saw  the  face  of 
her  mother  once  more,  with  the  wan  despair  on 
it  of  the  bygone  days  when  the  title  of  wife  was 
denied  her,  and  the  social  prospect  was  closed 
forever. 

Julius  approached,  and  roused  her. 

"Can  I  get  you  anything?"  he  asked.  "You 
are  looking  very  ill.  I  hope  I  have  said  nothing 
to  distress  you?" 

The  question  failed  to  attract  her  attention. 
She  put  a  question  herself  instead  of  answering  it. 

' '  Did  you  say  you  were  quite  ignorant  of  what 
your  father  was  thinking  of  when  he  spoke  to 
you  about  me?" 

"Quite  ignorant." 

"Is  your  brother  likely  to  know  more  about  it 
than  you  do?" 

"Certainly  not." 

She  paused,  absorbed  once  more  in  her  own 
thoughts.  Startled,  on  the  memorable  day  when 
they  had  first  met,  by  Geoffrey's  family  name, 
she  had  put  the  question  to  him  whether  there 
had   not  been  some  acquaintance  between  their 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  4i 

parents  in  the  past  time.  Deceiving  her  in  all 
else,  he  had  not  deceived  in  this.  He  had  spoken 
in  good  faith,  when  he  had  declared  that  he  had 
never  heard  her  father  or  mother  mentioned  at 
home. 

The  curiosity  of  Julius  was  aroused.  He  at- 
tempted to  lead  her  on  into  saying  more. 

"You  appear  to  know  what  my  father  was 
thinking  of  when  he  spoke  to  me,"  he  resumed. 
"May  I  ask—" 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  gesture  of  entreaty. 

"Pray  don't  ask!  It's  past  and  over — it  can 
have  no  interest  for  you — it  has  nothing  to  do 
with  my  errand  here.  I  must  return,"  she  went 
on,  hurriedly,  "to  my  object  in  trespassing  on 
your  kindness.  Have  you  heard  me  mentioned, 
Mr.  Delamayn,  by  another  member  of  your  fam- 
ily besides  your  father?" 

Julius  had  not  anticipated  that  she  would  ap- 
proach, of  her  own  accord,  the  painful  subject 
on  which  he  had  himself  forborne  to  touch.  He 
was  a  little  disappointed.  He  had  expected 
more  delicacy  of  feeling  from  her  than  she  had 
shown. 

"Is  it  necessary,"  he  asked,  coldly,  "to  enter 
on  that?" 

The  blood  rose  again  in  Anne's  cheeks. 

"If  it  had  not  been  necessary,"  she  answered, 
"do  you  think  I  could  have  forced  myself  to 
mention  it  to  you?  Let  me  remind  you  that  I 
am  here  on  sufferance.  If  I  don't  speak  plainlj^ 
(no  matter  at  what  sacrifice  to  my  own  feelings), 
I  make  my  situation  more  embarrassing  than  it 


42  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

is  already.  I  have  something  to  tell  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm  relating  to  the  anonymous  letters  which  she 
has  lately  received.  And  I  have  a  word  to  say 
to  her,  next,  about  her  contemplated  marriage. 
Before  you  allow  me  to  do  this,  you  ought  to 
know  who  I  am.  (I  have  owned  it.)  You  ought 
to  have  heard  the  worst  that  can  be  said  of  my 
conduct.  (Your  face  tells  me  you  have  heard 
the  worst.)  After  the  forbearance  you  have 
shown  to  me,  as  a  perfect  stranger,  I  will  not 
commit  the  meanness  of  taking  you  by  surprise. 
Perhaps,  Mr.  Delamayn,  you  understand,  notv^ 
why  I  felt  myself  obliged  to  refer  to  your  brother. 
Will  you  trust  me  with  permission  to  speak  to 
Mrs.  Glenarm?" 

It   was   simply  and   modestly   said — with   an 
unaffected  and  touching  resignation  of  look  and 
'  manner.     Julius  gave  her  back  the  respect  and 
the  sympathy  which,  for  a  moment,  he  had  un- 
justly withheld  from  her. 

"You  have  placed  a  confidence  in  me,"  he 
said,  "which  most  persons  in  your  situation 
would  have  withheld.  I  feel  bound,  in  return, 
to  place  confidence  in  you.  I  will  take  it  for 
granted  that  your  motive  in  this  matter  is  one 
which  it  is  my  duty  to  respect.  It  will  be  for 
Mrs.  Glenarm  to  say  whether  she  wishes  the  in- 
terview to  take  place  or  not.  All  that  I  can  do 
is  to  leave  you  free  to  propose  it  to  her.  You 
are  free. ' ' 

As  he  spoke,  the  sound  of  the  piano  reached 
them  from  the  music-room.  Julius  pointed  to 
the  glass  door  which  opened  on  to  the  terrace. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  43 

"You  have  only  to  go  in  by  that  door,"  he 
said,  "and  you  will  find  Mrs.  Glenarm  alone." 

Anne  bowed,  and  left  him.  Arrived  at  the 
short  flight  of  steps  which  led  up  to  the  door, 
she  paused  to  collect  her  thoughts  before  she 
went  in. 

A  sudden  reluctance  to  go  on  and  enter  the 
room  took  possession  of  her,  as  she  waited  with 
her  foot  on  the  lower  step.  The  report  of  Mrs. 
Glenarm's  contemplated  marriage  had  produced 
no  such  effect  on  her  as  Sir  Patrick  had  supposed : 
it  had  found  no  love  for  Geoffrey  left  to.  wound, 
no  latent  jealousy  only  waiting  to  be  inflamed. 
Her  object  in  taking  the  journey  to  Perth  was 
completed  when  her  correspondence  with  Geof- 
frey was  in  her  own  hands  again.  The  change 
of  purpose  which  had  brought  her  to  Swanhaven 
was  due  entirely  to  the  new  view  of  her  position 
toward  Mrs.  Glenarm  which  the  coarse  common- 
sense  of  Bishopriggs  had  first  suggested  to  her. 
If  she  failed  to  protest  against  Mrs.  Glenarm's 
marriage,  in  the  interests  of  the  reparation  which 
Geoffrey  owed  to  her,  her  conduct  would  only 
confirm  Geoffrey's  audacious  assertion  that  she 
was  a  married  woman  already.  For  her  own 
sake  she  might  still  have  hesitated  to  move  in 
the  matter.  But  Blanche's  interests  were  con- 
cerned as  well  as  her  own;  and,  for  Blanche's 
sake,  she  had  resolved  on  making  the  journey  to 
Swanhaven  Lodge. 

At  the  same  time,  feeling  toward  Geoffrey  as 
she   felt  now — conscious   that  she   was   of  not 


44  WORKS     OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

really  desiring  the  reparation  on  which  she  was 
about  to  insist — it  was  essential  to  the  preserva- 
tion of  her  own  self-respect  that  she  should  have 
some  purpose  in  view  which  could  justify  her  to 
her  own  conscience  in  assuming  the  character  of 
Mrs.  Glenarm's  rival. 

She  had  only  to  call  to  mind  the  critical  situ- 
ation of  Blanche — and  to  see  her  purpose  before 
her  plainly.  Assuming  that  she  could  open  the 
coming  interview  by  peaceably  proving  that  her 
claim  on  Geoffrey  was  beyond  dispute,  she  might 
then,  without  fear  of  misconception,  take  the 
tone  of  a  friend  instead  of  an  enemy,  and  might, 
with  the  best  grace,  assure  Mrs.  Glenarm  that 
she  had  no  rivalry  to  dread,  on  the  one  easy  con- 
dition that  she  engaged  to  make  Geoffrey  repair 
the  evil  that  he  had  done.  ' '  Marry  him  without 
a  word  against  it  to  di-ead  from  me — so  long  as 
he  unsays  the  words  and  undoes  the  deeds  which 
have  thrown  a  doubt  on  the  marriage  of  Arnold 
and  Blanche."  If  she  could  but  bring  the  inter- 
view to  this  end — there  was  the  way  found  of 
extricating  Arnold,  by  her  own  exertions,  from 
the  false  position  in  which  she  had  innocently 
placed  him  toward  his  wife !  Such  was  the  object 
before  her,  as  she  now  stood  on  the  brink  of  her 
interview  with  Mrs.  Glenarm. 

Up  to  this  moment,  she  had  firmly  believed  in 
her  capacity  to  realize  her  own  visionary  project. 
It  was  only  when  she  had  her  foot  on  the  step 
that  a  doubt  of  the  success  of  the  coming  experi- 
ment crossed  her  mind.  For  the  first  time  she 
saw  the  weak  point  in  her  own  reasoning.     For 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  45 

the  first  time  she  felt  how  much  she  had  blindly 
taken  for  granted,  in  assuming  that  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm  would  have  sufficient  sense  of  justice  and 
sufficient  command  of  temper  to  hear  her  patient- 
ly. All  her  hopes  of  success  rested  on  her  own 
favorable  estimate  of  a  woman  who  was  a  total 
stranger  to  her!  What  if  the  first  words  ex- 
changed between  them  proved  the  estimate  to 
be  wrong? 

It  was  too  late  to  pause  and  reconsider  the 
position.  Julius  Delamaynhad  noticed  her  hes- 
itation, and  was  advancing  toward  her  from  the 
end  of  the  terrace.  There  was  no  help  for  it  but 
to  master  her  own  irresolution,  and  to  run  the 
risk  boldly.  "Come  what  may,  I  have  gone  too 
far  to  stop  here.''''  With  that  desperate  resolu- 
tion to  animate  her,  she  opened  the  glass  door  at 
the  top  of  the  steps,  and  went  into  the  room. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  rose  from  the  piano.  The  two 
women — one  so  richly,  the  other  so  plainly 
dressed;  one  with  her  beauty  in  its  full  bloom, 
the  other  worn  and  blighted ;  one  with  society  at 
her  feet,  the  other  an  outcast  living  under  the 
bleak  shadow  of  reproach — the  two  women  stood 
face  to  face,  and  exchanged  the  cold  courtesies 
of  salute  between  strangers,  in  silence. 

The  first  to  meet  the  trivial  necessities  of  the 
situation  was  Mrs.  Glenarm.  She  good-humor- 
edly  put  an  end  to  the  embarrassment — which 
the  shy  visitor  appeared  to  feel  acutely — by 
speaking  first. 

"I  am  afraid  the  servants  have  not  told  you?" 
she  said,     "Mrs.  Delamayn  has  gone  out." 


46  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"I  beg  your  pardon — I  have  not  called  to  see 
Mrs.  Delamayn. " 

Mrs.  Glenarm  looked  a  little  surprised.  She 
went  on,  however,  as  amiably  as  before. 

"Mr.  Delamayn,  perhaps?"  she  suggested. 
"I  expect  him  here  every  moment." 

Anne  explained  again.  "I  have  just  parted 
from  Mr.  Delamayn."  Mrs.  Glenarm  opened 
her  eyes  in  astonishment.  Anne  proceeded.  "I 
have  come  here,  if  you  will  excuse  the  intru- 
sion— " 

She  hesitated — at  a  loss  how  to  end  the  sen- 
tence. Mrs.  Glenarm,  beginning  by  this  time 
to  feel  a  strong  curiosity  as  to  what  might  be 
coming  next,  advanced  to  the  rescue  once  more. 

"Pray  don't  apologize,"  she  said.  "I  think  I 
understand  that  you  are  so  good  as  to  have  come 
to  see  me.  You  look  tired.  Won't  you  take  a 
chair?" 

Anne  could  stand  no  longer.  She  took  the 
offered  chait-.  Mrs.  Glenarm  resumed  her  place 
on  the  music-stool,  and  ran  her  fingers  idly  over 
the  keys  of  the  piano.  "Where  did  you  see  Mr. 
Delamayn?"  she  went  on,  "The  most  irrespon- 
sible of  men,  except  when  he  has  got  his  fiddle 
in  his  hand!  Is  he  coming  in  soon?  Are  we 
going  to  have  any  music?  Have  you  come  to 
play  with  us?  Mr.  Delamayn  is  a  perfect  fanatic 
in  music,  isn't  he?  Why  isn't  he  here  to  intro- 
duce us?  I  suppose  you  like  the  classical  style, 
too?  Did  you  know  that  I  was  in  the  music- 
room?     Might  I  ask  your  name?" 

Frivolous  as  they  were,  Mrs.  Glenarm 's  ques- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  47 

tions  were  not  without  their  use.  They  gave 
Anne  time  to  summon  her  resolution,  and  to  feel 
the  necessity  of  explaining  herself. 

"I  am  speaking,  I  believe,  to  Mrs.  Glenarm?" 
she  began. 

The  good-humored  widow  smiled,  and  bowed 
graciously. 

"I  have  come  here,  Mrs.  Glenarm — by  Mr. 
Delamayn's  permission — to  ask  leave  to  speak  to 
you  on  a  matter  in  which  you  are  interested. ' ' 

Mrs.  Glenarm's  many-ringed  fingers  paused 
over  the  keys  of  the  piano.  Mrs,  Glenarm's 
plump  face  turned  on  the  stranger  with  a  dawn- 
ing expression  of  surprise. 

"Indeed?  I  am  interested  in  so  many  mat- 
ters.    May  I  ask  what  this  matter  is?" 

The  flippant  tone  of  the  speaker  jarred  on 
Anne.  If  Mrs.  Glenarm's  nature  was  as  shallow 
as  it  appeared  to  be  on  the  surface,  there  was 
little  hope  of  any  sympathy  establishing  itself 
between  them. 

"I  wished  to  speak  to  you,"  she  answered, 
"about  something  that  happened  while  you  were 
paying  a  visit  in  the  neighborhood  of  Perth." 

The  dawning  surprise  in  Mrs.  Glenarm's  face 
became  intensified  into  an  expression  of  distrust. 
Her  hearty  manner  vanished  under  a  veil  of  con- 
ventional civility,  drawn  over  it  suddenly.  She 
looked  at  Anne.  "Never  at  the  best  of  times  a 
beauty,"  she  thought.  "Wretchedly  out  of 
health  now.  Dressed  like  a  servant,  and  looking 
like  a  lady.     "What  does  it  mean?" 

The  last  doubt  was  not  to  be  borne  in  silence 


48  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

by  a  person  of  Mrs.  Glenarm's  temperament. 
She  addressed  herself  to  the  solution  of  it  with 
the  most  unblushing  directness— dexterously  ex- 
cused by  the  most  winning  frankness  of  manner. 

"Pardon  me,"  she  said.  "My  memory  for 
faces  is  a  bad  one;  and  I  don't  think  5^ou  heard 
me  just  now,  when  I  asked  for  your  name. 
Have  we  ever  met  before?" 

"Never." 

"And  yet— if  1  understand  what  you  are  refer- 
ring to — you  wish  to  speak  to  me  about  some- 
thing which  is  only  interesting  to  myself  and  my 
most  intimate  friends." 

"You  understand  me  quite  correctly,"  said 
Anne.  "I  wish  to  speak  to  you  about  some 
anonymous  letters — " 

"For  the  third  time,  will  you  permit  me  to 
ask  for  your  name?" 

"You  shall  hear  it  directlj'' — if  you  will  first 
allow  me  to  finish  what  I  wanted  to  say.  I  wish 
— if  I  can  — to  persuade  you  that  I  come  here  as 
a  friend,  before  I  mention  my  name.  You  will, 
I  am  sure,  not  be  very  sorry  to  hear  that  you 
need  dread  no  further  annoyance — " 

"Pardon  me  once  more,"  said  Mrs.  Glenarm, 
interposing  for  the  second  time.  "I  am  at  a 
loss  to  know  to  what  I  am  to  attribute  this  kind 
interest  in  my  affairs  on  the  part  of  a  total 
stranger." 

This  time  her  tone  was  more  than  politely  cold 
— it  was  politely  impertinent.  Mrs.  Glenarm 
had  lived  all  her  life  in  good  society,  and  was  a 
perfect  mistress  of  the  subtleties  of  refined  inso- 


MAN    AND    WIPE.  49 

lence  in  her  intercourse  with  those  who  incurred 
her  displeasure. 

Anne's  sensitive  nature  felt  the  wound — but 
Anne's  patient  courage  submitted.  She  put 
away  from  her  the  insolence  which  had  tried  to 
sting,  and  went  on,  gently  and  firmly,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened. 

"The  person  who  wrote  to  you  anonymously," 
she  said,  "alluded  to  a  correspondence.  He  is 
no  longer  in  possession  of  it.  The  correspondence 
has  passed  into  hands  which  may  be  trusted  to 
respect  it.  It  will  be  put  to  no  base  use  in  the 
future — I  answer  for  that." 

"You  answer  for  that?"  repeated  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm.  She  suddenly  leaned  forward  over  the 
piano,  and  fixed  her  eyes  in  unconcealed  scrutiny 
on  Anne's  face.  The  violent  temper,  so  often 
found  in  combination  with  the  weak  nature, 
began  to  show  itself  in  her  rising  color  and  her 
lowering  brow.  "How  do  you  know  what  the 
person  wrote?"  she  asked.  "How  do  ?/om  know 
that  the  correspondence  has  passed  into  other 
hands?  Who  are  you?"  Before  Anne  could 
answer,  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  electrified  by  a 
new  idea,  "The  man  who  wrote  to  me  spoke  of 
something  else  besides  a  correspondence.  He 
spoke  of  a  woman.  I  have  found  you  out!"  she 
exclaimed,  with  a  burst  of  jealous  fury,  "l^ow 
are  the  woman!" 

Anne  rose,  on  her  side,  still  in  firm  possession 
of  her  self-control. 

"Mrs.  Glenarm,"  she  said,  calmly,  "I  warn 
— ^no,  I  entreat  you — not  to  take  that  tone  with 


50  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINb. 

me.  Compose  yourself ;  and  I  promise  to  satisfy 
you  that  you  are  miore  interested  than  you  are 
willing  to  believe  in  what  I  have  still  to  say. 
Pray  bear  with  me  for  a  little  longer.  I  admit 
that  you  have  guessed  right.  I  own  that  I  am 
the  miserable  woman  who  has  been  ruined  and 
deserted  by  Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

"It's  false!"  cried  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "You 
wretch !  Do  you  come  to  me  with  your  trumped- 
up  story?  What  does  Julius  Delamayn  mean  by 
exposing  me  to  this?"  Her  indignation  at  find- 
ing herself  in  the  same  room  with  Anne  broke 
its  way  through,  not  the  restraints  only,  but  the 
common  decencies  of  politeness.  "I'll  ring  for 
the  servants !"  she  said.  "I'll  have  you  turned 
out  of  the  house." 

She  tried  to  cross  the  fireplace  to  ring  the  bell. 
Anne,  who  was  standing  nearest  to  it,  stepped 
forward  at  tha  same  moment.  Without  saying 
a  word,  she  motioned  with  her  hand  to  the  other 
womaD  to  stand  back.  There  was  a  pause.  The 
two  waited,  with  their  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  one 
another — each  with  her  resolution  laid  bare  to 
the  other's  view.  In  a  moment  more,  the  finer 
nature  prevailed.  Mrs.  Glenarm  drew  back  a 
step  in  silence. 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  Anne. 

"Listen  to  you?"  repeated  Mrs.  Glenarm. 
"You  have  no  right  to  be  in  this  house.  You 
have  no  right  to  force  yourself  in  here.  Leave 
the  room!" 

Anne's  patience — so  firmly  and  admirably  pre- 
served thus  far — began  to  fail  her  at  last. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  51 

"Take  care,  Mrs.  Glenarm!"  she  said,  still 
struggling  with  herself.  "I  am  not  naturally  a 
patient  woman.  Trouble  has  done  much  to  tame 
my  temper — but  endurance  has  its  limits.  You 
have  reached  the  limits  of  mine.  I  have  a  claim 
to  be  heard— and  after  what  you  have  said  to 
me,  I  ivill  be  heard!" 

"You  have  no  claim !  You  shameless  woman, 
you  are  married  already.  I  know  the  man's 
name.     Arnold  Brink  worth." 

"Did  Geoffrey  Delamayn  tell  you  that?" 

"I  decline  to  answer  a  woman  who  speaks  of 
Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  in  that  familiar  way." 

Anne  advanced  a  step  nearer. 

"Did  Geoffrey  Delamayn  tell  you  that?"  she 
repeated. 

There  was  a  light  in  her  eyes,  there  was  a  ring 
in  her  voice,  which  showed  that  she  was  roused 
at  last.     Mrs.  Glenarm  answered  her  this  time. 

"He  did  tell  me." 

"He  lied!" 

"Hedidwo^.'  He  knew.  I  believe /iim.  I 
don't  believe  you.'''' 

"If  he  told  you  that  I  was  anything  but  a 
single  woman — if  he  told  you  that  Arnold  Brink- 
worth  was  married  to  anybody  but  Miss  Lundie 
of  Windygates — I  say  again  he  lied!" 

"I  say  again — I  believe  him,  and  not  ?/ow." 

"You  believe  I  am  Arnold  Brinkworth's 
wife?" 

"I  am  certain  of  it." 

"You  tell  me  that  to  my  face?" 

"I  tell  you  to  your  face — you  maij  have  been 


52  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Geoffrey  Delamayn's  mistress;   you  are  Arnold 
Brinkworth's  wife." 

At  those  words  the  long-restrained  anger 
leaped  up  in  Anne — all  the  more  hotly  for  hav- 
ing been  hitherto  so  steadily  controlled.  In  one 
breathless  moment  the  whirlwind  of  her  indig- 
nation swept  awa}^  not  onl}^  all  remembrance  of 
the  purpose  which  had  brought  her  to  Swan- 
haven,  but  all  sense  even  of  the  unpardonable 
wrong  which  she  had  suffered  at  Geoffrey's 
hands.  If  he  had  been  there  at  that  moment,  and 
had  offered  to  redeem  his  pledge,  she  would  have 
consented  to  marry  him,  while  Mrs.  Glenarm's 
eye  was  on  her — no  matter  whether  she  destroyed 
herself  in  her  first  cool  moment  afterward  or  not. 
The  small  sting  had  planted  itself  at  last  in  the 
great  nature.  The  noblest  woman  is  only  a 
woman,  after  all! 

"I  forbid  your  marriage  to  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn !  I  insist  on  his  performing  the  promise 
he  gave  me,  to  make  me  his  wife !  I  have  got 
it  here  in  his  own  words,  in  his  own  writing. 
On  his  soul,  he  swears  it  to  me — he  will  re- 
deem his  pledge.  His  mistress,  did  you  say? 
His  wife,  Mrs.  Glenarm,  before  the  week  is 
out!" 

In  those  wild  words  she  cast  back  the  taunt — 
with  the  letter  held  in  triumph  in  her  hand. 

Daunted  for  the  moment  by  the  doubt  now 
literally  forced  on  her,  that  Anne  might  really 
have  the  claim  on  Geoffrey  which  she  advanced, 
Mrs.  Glenarm  answered  nevertheless  with  the 
obstinacy  of  a  woman  brought  to  bay — with  a 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  53 

resolution  not  to  be  convinced  by  conviction 
itself. 

"I  won't  give  him  up!"  she  cried.  "Your 
letter  is  a  forgery.  You  have  no  proof.  I  won't, 
I  won't,  I  won't  give  him  up!"  she  repeated^ 
with  the  impotent  iteration  of  an  angry  child. 

Anne  pointed  disdainfully  to  the  letter  that 
she  held.  "Here  is  his  pledged  and  written 
word,"  she  said.  "While  I  live,  you  will  never 
be  his  wife." 

"1  shall  be  his  wife  the  day  after  the  race. 
I  am  going  to  him  in  London — to  warn  him 
against  You!" 

"You  will  find  me  in  London  before  you — with 
this  in  my  hand.      Do  you  know  his  writing?" 

She  held  up  the  letter,  open.  Mrs.  Glenarm's 
hand  flew  out  with  the  stealthy  rapidity  of  a 
cat's  paw,  to  seize  and  destroy  it.  Quick  as  she 
was,  her  rival  was  quicker  still.  For  an  instant 
they  faced  each  other  breathless — one  with  the 
letter  held  behind  her ;  one  with  her  hand  still 
stretched  out. 

At  the  same  moment — before  a  word  more 
had  passed  between  them — the  glass  door  opened ; 
and  Julius  Delamayn  appeared  in  the  room. 

He  addressed  himself  to  Anne. 

"We  decided,  on  the  terrace,"  he  said,  quiet- 
ly, "that  you  should  speak  to  Mrs.  Glenarm,  if 
Mrs.  Glenarm  wished  it.  Do  you  think  it  desir- 
able that  the  interview  should  be  continued  any 
longer?" 

Anne's  head  drooped  on  her  breast.  The  fiery 
anger  in  her  was  quenched  in  an  instant. 


54  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"I  have  been  cruelly  provoked,  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn, "  she  answered.  "But  I  have  no  right  to 
plead  that. ' '  She  looked  up  at  him  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  hot  tears  of  shame  gathered  in  her 
eyes  and  fell  slowly  over  her  cheeks.  She  bent 
her  head  again  and  hid  them  from  him.  "The 
only  atonement  I  can  make,"  she  said,  "is  to 
ask  your  pardon,  and  to  leave  the  house." 

In  silence,  she  turned  away  to  the  door.  In 
silence,  Julius  Delamayn  paid  her  the  trifling 
courtesy  of  opening  it  for  her.     She  went  out. 

Mrs.  Glenarm's  indignation — suspended  for 
the  moment — transferred  itself  to  Julius. 

"If  I  have  been  entrapped  into  seeing  that 
woman,  with  your  approval,"  she  said,  haught- 
ily, "I  owe  it  to  myself,  Mr.  Delamayn,  to  follow 
her  example,  and  to  leave  your  house." 

' '  I  authorized  her  to  ask  you  for  an  interview, 
Mrs.  Glenann.  If  she  has  presumed  on  the  per- 
mission that  I  gave  her,  I  sincerely  regret  it, 
and  I  beg  you  to  accept  my  apologies.  At  the 
same  time,  I  may  venture  to  add,  in  defense  of 
my  conduct,  that  I  thought  her — and  think  her 
still^ — a  woman  to  be  pitied  more  than  to  be 
blamed." 

' '  To  be  pitied — did  you  say  ? ' '  asked  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm,  doubtful  whether  her  ears  had  not  deceived 
her. 

"To  be  pitied,"  repeated  Julius. 

' '  You  may  find  it  convenient,  Mr.  Delamayn, 
to  forget  what  your  brother  has  told  us  about 
that  person.     I  happen  to  remember  it." 

"So  do  I,  Mrs.  Glenarm.      But,  with  my  ex- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  55 

perience  of  Geoffrey — "  He  hesitated,  and  ran 
his  fingers  nervously  over  the  strings  of  his  vio- 
lin. 

"You  don't  believe  him?"  said  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm. 

Julius  declined  to  admit  that  he  doubted  his 
brother's  word,  to  the  ladj^  who  was  about  to 
become  his  brother's  wife. 

*'I  don't  quite  go  that  length, "  he  said.  "I 
find  it  difficult  to  reconcile  what  Geoffrej^  has 
told  us,  with  Miss  Silvester's  manner  and  ap- 
pearance— " 

"Her  appearance!"  cried  Mrs.  Glenarm,  in 
a  transport  of  astonishment  and  disgust.  ''''Her 
appearance !  Oh,  the  men !  I  beg  your  pardon 
—I  ought  to  have  remembered  that  there  is  no 
accounting  for  tastes.     Go  on — pray  go  on!" 

"Shall  we  compose  ourselves  with  a  little 
music?"  suggested  Julius. 

"I  particularly  request  you  will  go  on,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Glenarm,  emphatically.  "You  find 
it  'impossible  to  reconcile — ^  " 

"I  said  'difficult.'  " 

"Oh,  very  well.  Difficult  to  reconcile  what 
Geoffrey  told  us,  with  Miss  Silvester's  manner 
and  appearance.  What  next?  You  had  some- 
thing else  to  say,  when  I  was  so  rude  as  to  inter- 
rupt you.     "What  was  it?" 

"Only  this,"  said  Julius.  "I  don't  find  it 
easy  to  understand  Sir  Patrick  Lundie's  conduct 
in  permitting  Mr.  Briukworth  to  commit  big- 
amy with  his  niece. ' ' 

"Wait  a  minute!     The  marriage  of  that  hor- 


50  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

rible  womau  to  Mr.  Briakvvorth  was  a  private 
marriage.  Of  course,  Sir  Patrick  knew  nothing 
about  it!" 

Julius  owned  that  this  might  be  possible,  and 
made  a  second  attempt  to  lead  the  angry  lady 
back  to  the  piano.  Useless,  once  more !  Though 
she  shrank  from  confessing  it  to  herself,  Mrs. 
Glenarm's  belief  in  the  genuineness  of  her  lover's 
defense  had  been  shaken.  The  tone  taken  by 
Julius — moderate  as  it  was — revived  the  first 
startling  suspicion  of  the  credibility  of  Geoffrey's 
statement  which  Anne's  language  and  conduct 
had  forced  on  Mrs.  Glenarm.  She  dropped  into 
the  nearest  chair,  and  put  her  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes.  "You  always  hated  poor  Geoffrey," 
she  said,  with  a  burst  of  tears.  "And  now 
you're  defaming  him  to  me!" 

Julius  managed  her  admirably.  On  the  point 
of  answering  her  seriously,  he  checked  himself. 
"I  always  hated  poor  Geoffrey?"  he  repeated, 
with  a  smile.  "You  ought  to  be  the  last  person 
to  say  that,  Mrs.  Glenarm !  I  brought  him  all 
the  way  from  London  expressly  to  introduce  him 
to  you.'''' 

"Then  I  wish  you  had  left  him  in  London!" 
retorted  Mrs.  Glenarm,  shifting  suddenly  from 
tears  to  temper.  "I  was  a  happy  woman  before 
I  met  your  brother.  I  can't  give  him  up!"  she 
burst  out,  shifting  back  again  from  temper  to 
tears.  "I  don't  care  if  he  has  deceived  me.  I 
won't  let  another  woman  have  him !  I  will  be 
his  wife !"  She  threw  herself  theatrically  on  her 
knees  before  Julius.     ' '  Oh,  do  help  me  to  find 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  57 

out  the  truth!"  she  said.  "Oh,  Julius,  pity  me! 
I  am  so  fond  of  him!" 

There  was  genuine  distress  in  her  face,  there 
was  true  feeling  in  her  voice.  Who  would  have 
believed  that  there  were  reserves  of  merciless 
insolence  and  heartless  cruelty  in  this  woman, 
and  that  they  had  been  lavishly  poured  out  on  a 
fallen  sister  not  five  minutes  since? 

"I  will  do  all  I  can,"  said  Julius,  raising  her. 
"Let  us  talk  of  it  when  you  are  more  composed. 
Try  a  little  music,"  he  repeated,  "just  to  quiet 
your  nerves." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  play?"  asked  Mrs. 
Glenarm,  becoming  a  model  of  feminine  docility 
at  a  moment's  notice. 

Julius  opened  the  Sonatas  of  Mozart,  and 
shouldered  his  violin. 

"Let's  try  the  Fifteenth,"  he  said,  placing 
Mrs.  Glenarm  at  the  piano.  "We  will  begin 
with  the  Adagio.  If  ever  there  was  divine  music 
written  by  mortal  man,  there  it  is!" 

They  began.  At  the  third  bar  Mrs.  Glenarm 
dropped  a  note — and  the  bow  of  Julius  paused 
shuddering  on  the  strings. 

"I  can't  play!"  she  said.  "I  am  so  agitated; 
I  am  so  anxious.  How  am  I  to  find  out  whether 
that  svretch  is  reallj^  married  or  not?  Who  can 
I  ask?  I  can't  go  to  Geoffrey  in  London — the 
trainers  won't  let  me  see  him.  I  can't  appeal 
to  Mr.  Brink  worth  himself — I  am  not  even  ac- 
quainted with  him.  Who  else  is  there?  Do 
think,  and  tell  me!" 

There  was  but  one  chance  of  making  her  re- 


58  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

turn  to  the  Adagio — the  chance  of  hitting  on  a 
suggestion  which  would  satisfy  and  quiet  her. 
JuHus  laid  his  violin  on  the  piano,  and  consid- 
ered the  question  before  him  carefully. 

"There  are  the  witnesses,"  he  said.  "If 
Geoffrey's  story  is  to  be  depended  on,  the  land- 
lady and  the  waiter  at  the  inn  can  speak  to  the 
facts." 

"Low people!"  objected  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "Peo- 
ple I  don't  know.  People  who  might  take  ad- 
vantage of  my  situation,  and  be  insolent  to  me." 

Julius  considered  once  more;  and  made  an- 
other suggestion.  With  the  fatal  ingenuitj'  of 
innocence,  he  hit  on  the  idea  of  referring  Mrs. 
Glenarm  to  no  less  a  person  than  Lady  Lundie 
herself ! 

"There  is  our  good  friend  at  Windygates, "  he 
said,  "Some  whisper  of  the  matter  may  have 
reached  Lady  Lundie's  ears.  It  may  be  a  little 
awkward  to  call  on  her  (if  she  has  heard  anj'^- 
thing)  at  the  time  of  a  serious  family  disaster. 
You  are  the  best  judge  of  that,  however.  All  I 
can  do  is  to  throw  out  the  notion.  Windygates 
isn't  very  far  off — and  something  might  come  of 
it.     What  do  you  think?" 

Something  might  come  of  it !  Let  it  be  re- 
membered that  Lady  Lundie  had  been  left  en- 
tirely in  the  dark — that  she  had  written  to  Sir 
Patrick  in  a  tone  which  plainly  showed  that 
her  self-esteem  was  wounded  and  her  suspicion 
roused — and  that  her  first  intimation  of  the  seri- 
ous dilemma  in  which  Arnold  Brinkworth  stood 
was  now  likely,  thanks  to  Julius  Delamayn,  to 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  69 

reach  her  from  the  lips  of  a  mere  acquaintance. 
Let  this  be  remembered ;  and  then  let  the  esti- 
mate be  formed  of  what  might  come  of  it — not 
at  Windygates  only,  but  also  at  Ham  Farm ! 

"What  do  you  think?"  asked  Julius. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  was  enchanted.  "The  very 
person  to  go  to!"  she  said.  "If  I  am  not  let  in, 
I  can  easily 'write — and  explain  my  object  as  an 
apology.  Lady  Lundie  is  so  right-minded,  so 
sympathetic.  If  she  sees  no  one  else — I  have 
only  to  confide  my  anxieties  to  her,  and  I  am 
sure  she  will  see  me.  You  will  lend  me  a  car- 
riage, won't  you?  I'll  go  to  Windygates  to- 
morrow. 

Julius  took  his  violin  off  the  piano. 

"Don't  think  me  very  troublesome,"  he  said, 
coaxingly.  "Between  this  and  to-morrow  we 
have  nothing  to  do.  And  it  is  such  music,  if 
you  once  get  into  the  swing  of  it !  Would  you 
mind  trying  again?" 

Mrs.  Glenarm  was  willing  to  do  anything  to 
prove  her  gratitude,  after  the  invaluable  hint 
which  she  had  just  received.  At  the  second 
trial  the  fair  pianist's  eye  and  hand  were  in  per- 
fect harmony.  The  lovely  melody  which  the 
Adagio  of  Mozart's  Fifteenth  Sonata  has  given 
to  violin  and  piano  flowed  smoothly  at  last — and 
Julius  Delamayn  soared  to  the  seventh  heaven 
of  musical  delight. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Glenarm  and  Mrs.  Dela- 
mayn went  together  to  Windygates  House. 


60  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS, 


TENTH  SCENE.— THE  BEDROOM. 


CHAPTER  THE   FORTY-FIRST. 

LADY  LUNDIE  DOES  HER  DUTY. 

The  scene  opens  on  a  bedroom — and  discloses, 
in  broad  daylight,  a  lady  in  bed. 

Persons  with  an  irritable  sense  of  propriety, 
whose  self-appointed  duty  it  is  to  be  always  cry- 
ing out,  are  warned  to  pause  before  they  cry  out 
on  this  occasion.  The  lady  now  presented  to 
view  being  no  less  a  person  than  Lady  Lundie 
herself,  it  follows,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  the 
utmost  demands  of  propriety  are,  by  the  mere 
assertion  of  that  fact,  abundantly  and  indisputa- 
bly satisfied.  To  say  that  anything  short  of  di- 
rect moral  advantage  could,  by  any  possibility, 
accrue  to  any  living  creature  by  the  presenta- 
tion of  her  ladyship  in  a  horizontal,  instead  of  a 
perpendicular  position,  is  to  assert  that  Virtue 
is  a  question  of  posture,  and  that  Respectability 
ceases  to  assert  itself  when  it  ceases  to  appear 
in  morning  or  evening  dress.  Will  anybody  be 
bold  enough  to  say  that?  Let  nobody  cry  out, 
then,  on  the  present  occasion. 

Lady  Lundie  was  in  bed. 

Her  ladyship  had  received  Blanche's  written 
announcement  of    the   sudden  stoppage  of  the 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  «1 

bridal  tour;  and  had  penned  the  answer  to  Sir 
Patrick — the  receipt  of  which  at  Ham  Farm  has 
been  ah-eady  described.  This  done,  Lady  Lun- 
die  felt  it  due  to  herself  to  take  a  becoming  posi- 
tion in  her  own  house,  pending  the  possible  ar- 
rival of  Sir  Patrick's  reply.  What  does  a  right 
minded  woman  do  when  she  has  reason  to  believe 
that  she  is  cruelly  distrusted  by  the  members  of 
her  own  family?  A  right  minded  woman  feels 
it  so  acutely  that  she  falls  ill.  Lady  Lundie  fell 
ill  accordingly. 

The  case  being  a  serious  one,  a  medical  prac- 
titioner of  the  highest  grade  in  the  profession 
was  required  to  treat  it.  A  physician  from  the 
neighboring  town  of  Kirkandrew  was  called  in. 

The  physician  came  in  a  carriage  and  pair, 
with  the  necessary  bald  head,  and  the  indispen- 
sable white  cravat.  He  felt  her  ladyship's  pulse, 
and  put  a  few  gentle  questions.  He  turned  his 
back  solemnly,  as  only  a  great  doctor  can,  on  his 
own  positive  internal  conviction  that  his  patient 
had  nothing  whatever  the  matter  with  her.  He 
said,  with  every  appearance  of  believing  in  him- 
self, "Nerves,  Lady  Lundie.  Repose  in  bed  is 
essentially  necessary,  I  will  write  a  prescrip- 
tion." He  prescribed  with  perfect  gravity: 
Aromatic  Spirits  of  Ammonia — 15  drops.  Spirits 
of  Red  Lavender — 10  drops.  Syrup  of  Orange 
Peel — 3  drams.  Camphor  Julep — 1  ounce.  When 
he  had  written,  Misce  fiat  Haustus  (instead  of 
Mix  a  Draught) — when  he  had  added,  Ter  die 
Sumendus  (instead  of  To  be  taken  Three  times 
a  day) — and  when  he  had  certified  to  his  own 
Vol.  4  3— 


62  WORKS   OF   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

Latin,  by  putting  his  initials  at  the  end,  he  had 
only  to  make  his  bow ;  to  slip  two  guineas  into 
his  pocket ;  and  to  go  his  way,  with  an  approv- 
ing professional  conscience,  in  the  character  of 
a  physician  who  had  done  his  duty. 

Lady  Lundie  was  in  bed.  The  visible  part  of 
her  ladyship  was  perfectly  attired,  with  a  view 
to  the  occasion.  A  fillet  of  superb  white  lace 
encircled  her  head.  She  wore  an  adorable  in- 
valid jacket  of  white  cambric,  trimmed  with 
lace  and  pink  ribbons.  The  rest  was — bed- 
clothes. On  a  table  at  her  side  stood  the  Red 
Lavender  Draught — in  color  soothing  to  the  eye; 
in  flavor  not  unpleasant  to  the  taste.  A  book  of 
devotional  character  was  near  it.  The  domestic 
ledgers,  and  the  kitchen  report  for  the  day,  were 
ranged  modestly  behind  the  devout  book.  (Not 
even  her  ladyship's  nerves,  observe,  were  per- 
mitted to  interfere  with  her  ladyship's  duty.)  A 
fan,  a  smelling-bottle,  and  a  handkerchief  lay 
within  reach  on  the  counterpane.  The  spacious 
room  was  partially  darkened.  One  of  the  lower 
windows  was  open,  affording  her  ladyship  the 
necessary  cubic  supply  of  air.  The  late  Sir 
Thomas  looked  at  his  widow,  in  effigy,  from 
the  wall  opposite  the  end  of  the  bed.  Not  a  chair 
was  out  of  its  place ;  not  a  vestige  of  wearing 
apparel  dared  to  show  itseff  outside  the  sacred 
limits  of  the  wardrobe  and  the  drawers.  The 
sparkling  treasures  of  the  toilet-table  glittered  in 
the  dim  distance.  The  jugs  and  basins  were 
of  a  rare  and  creamy  white ;  spotless  and  beauti- 
ful to  see.     Look  where  you  might,  you  saw  a 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  63 

perfect  room.     Then  look  at  the  bed — and  you 
saw  a  perfect  woman,  and  completed  the  picture. 

It  was  the  day  after  Anne's  appearance  at 
Swanhaven — toward  the  end  of  the  afternoon. 

Lady  Lundje's  own  maid  opened  the  door 
noiselessly,  and  stole  on  tip-toe  to  the  bedside. 
Her  ladyship's  eyes  were  closed.  Her  ladyship 
suddenly  opened  them. 

' '  Not  asleep,  Hopkins.  Suffering.  What  is  it  ?  " 

Hopkins  laid  two  cards  on  the  counterpane. 
"Mrs.  Delamayn,  my  lady — and  Mrs.  Glenarm." 

"They  were  told  I  was  ill,  of  course?" 

"Yes,  my  lady.  Mrs.  Glenarm  sent  for  me. 
She  went  into  the  library,  and  wrote  this  note." 

Hopkins  produced  the  note,  neatly  folded  in 
three-cornered  form. 

"Have  they  gone?" 

"No,  my  lady.  Mrs.  Glenarm  told  me  Yes  or 
No  would  do  for  answer,  if  you  could  onty  have 
the  goodness  to  read  this. ' ' 

"Thoughtless  of  Mrs.  Glenarm — at  a  time 
when  the  doctor  insists  on  perfect  repoee,"  said 
Lad}^  Lundie.  "It  doesn't  matter.  One  sacri- 
fice more  or  less  is  of  very  little  consequence." 

She  fortified  herself  by  an  application  of  the 
smelling-bottle,  and  opened  the  note.  It  ran 
thus : 

"So  grieved,  dear  Lady  Lundie,  to  hear  that 
you  are  a  prisoner  in  your  room !  I  had  taken 
the  opportunity  of  calling  with  Mrs.  Delamayn, 
in  the  hope  that  I  might  be  able  to  ask  you  a 
question.     Will  your  inexhaustible  kindness  for- 


64  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

give  me  if  I  ask  it  in  writing?  Have  you  had 
any  unexpected  news  of  Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth 
lately?  I  mean,  have  you  heard  anything  about 
him  which  has  taken  you  very  much  by  surprise? 
I  have  a  serious  reason  for  asking  this.  I  will 
tell  you  what  it  is,  the  moment  you  are  able  to 
see  me.  Until  then,  one  word  of  answer  is  all  I 
expect.  Send  word  down — Yes,  or  No.  A  thou- 
sand apologies — and  pray  get  better  soon!" 

The  singular  question  contained  in  this  note 
suggested  one  of  two  inferences  to  Lady  Lundie's 
mind.  Either  Mrs.  Glenarm  had  heard  a  report 
of  the  unexpected  raturn  of  the  married  couple 
to  England — or  she  was  in  the  far  more  interest- 
ing and  important  position  of  possessing  a  clew 
to  the  secret  of  what  was  going  on  under  the 
surface  at  Ham  Farm.  The  phrase  used  in  the 
note,  "I  have  a  serious  reason  for  asking  this," 
appeared  to  favor  the  latter  of  the  two  interpre- 
tations. Impossible  as  it  seemed  to  be  that  Mrs. 
Glenarm  could  know  something  about  Arnold  of 
which  Lady  Lundie  was  in  absolute  ignorance, 
her  ladyship's  curiosity  (already  powerfully  ex- 
cited by  Blanche's  mysterious  letter)  was  only 
to  be  quieted  by  obtaining  the  necessary  explana- 
tion forthwith,  at  a  personal  interview. 

"Hopkins,"  she  said,  "I  must  see  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm." 

Hopkins  respectfully  held  up  her  hands  in  hor- 
ror. Company  in  the  bedroom  in  the  present 
state  of  her  ladyship's  health! 

"A  matter  of  duty  is  involved  in  this,  Hop- 
kins.    Give  me  the  glass." 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  Go 

Hopkins  produced  an  elegant  little  hand-mir- 
ror. Lady  Lundie  carefully  surveyed  herself  in 
it  down  to  the  margin  of  the  bed-clothes.  Above 
criticism  in  everj^  respect?  Yes — even  when 
the  critic  was  a  woman. 

"Show  Mrs.  Glenarm  up  here." 

In  a  minute  or  two  more  the  iron-master's 
widow  fluttered  into  the  room — a  little  over- 
dressed as  usual;  and  a  little  profuse  in  expres- 
sions of  gratitude  for  her  ladyship's  kindness, 
and  of  anxiety  about  her  ladyship's  health.  Lady 
Lundie  endured  it  as  long  as  she  could — then 
stopped  it  with  a  gesture  of  polite  remonstrance, 
and  came  to  the  point. 

"!N'ow,  my  dear — about  this  question  in  your 
note?  Is  it  possible  you  have  heard  already  that 
Arnold  Brinkworth  and  his  wife  have  come  back 
from  Baden?"  Mrs.  Glenarm  opened  her  eyes 
in  astonishment.  Lady  Lundie  put  it  more 
plainly.  "They  were  to  have  gone  on  to  Switz- 
erland, you  know,  for  their  wedding  tour,  and 
they  suddenly  altered  their  minds,  and  came 
back  to  England  on  Sunday  last. ' ' 

"Dear  Lady  Lundie,  it's  not  that!  Have  you 
heard  nothing  about  Mr.  Brinkworth  except 
what  you  have  just  told  me?" 

"Nothing." 

There  was  a  pause.  Mrs.  Glenarm  toyed  hesi- 
tatingly with  her  parasol.  Lady  Lundie  leaned 
forward  in  the  bed,  and  looked  at  her  atten- 
tively. 

"What  have  you  heard  about  him?"  she 
asked. 


66  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  was  embarrassed.  "It's  so  dif- 
ficult to  say,"  she  began. 

"I  can  bear  anything  but  suspense,"  said 
Lady  Lundie.     "Tell  me  the  worst." 

Mrs.  Glenarm  decided  to  risk  it.  "Have  you 
never  heard,"  she  asked,  "that  Mr.  Brinkworth 
might  possibly  have  committed  himself  with  an- 
other lady  before  he  married  Miss  Lundie?" 

Her  ladyship  first  closed  her  eyes  in  horror, 
and  then  searched  blindly  on  the  counterpane  for 
the  smelling-bottle.  Mrs.  Glenarm  gave  it  to 
her,  and  waited  to  see  how  the  invalid  bore  it 
before  she  said  any  more. 

"There  are  things  one  must  hear,"  remarked 
Lady  Lundie.  "I  see  an  act  of  duty  involved  in 
this.  No  words  can  describe  how  you  astonish 
me.     Who  told  you?" 

"Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  told  me." 

Her  ladyship  applied  for  the  second  time 
to  the  smelling-bottle.  "Arnold  Brinkworth's 
most  intimate  friend!"  she  exclaimed.  "He 
ought  to  know  if  anybody  does.  This  is  dread- 
ful. Why  should  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  tell 
you  .^" 

"I  am  going  to  marry  him,"  answered  Mrs. 
Glenarm.  "That  is  my  excuse,  dear  Lady  Lun- 
die, for  troubling  you  in  this  matter. ' ' 

Lady  Lundie  partially  opened  her  eyes  in  a 
state  of  faint  bewilderment.  "I  don't  under- 
stand," she  said.  "For  Heaven's  sake  explain 
yourself!" 

"Haven't  you  heard  about  the  anonymous  let- 
ters?" asked  Mrs.  Glenarm. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  67 

Yes.  Lady  Lundie  had  heard  about  the  let- 
ters. But  only  what  the  public  in  general  had 
heard.  The  name  of  the  lady  in  the  background 
not  mentioned;  and  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn 
assumed  to  be  as  innocent  as  the  babe  unborn. 
Any  mistake  in  that  assumption?  "Give  me 
your  hand,  my  poor  dear,  and  confide  it  all  to 
■me.'" 

"He  is  not  quite  innocent,"  said  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm.  "He  owned  to  a  foolish  flirtation — all  her 
doing,  no  doubt.  Of  course,  I  insisted  on  a  dis- 
tinct explanation.  Had  she  really  any  claim  on 
him?  Not  the  shadow  of  a  claim.  I  felt  that  I 
only  had  his  word  for  that — and  I  told  him  so. 
He  said  he  could  prove  it — he  said  he  knew  her 
to  be  privately  married  already.  Her  husband 
had  disowned  and  deserted  her;  she  was  at  the 
end  of  her  resources;  she  was  desperate  enough 
to  attempt  anything.  I  thought  it  all  very  sus- 
picious— until  Geoffrey  mentioned  the  man's 
name.  That  certainly  proved  that  he  had  cast 
off  his  wife;  for  I  myself  knew  that  he  had 
lately  married  another  person." 

Lady  Lundie  suddenly  started  up  from  her 
pillow — honestly  agitated;  genuinely  alarmed 
by  this  time. 

"Mr.  Delamayn  told  you  the  man's  name?" 
she  said,  breathlessly. 

"Yes." 

"Do  I  know  it?" 

"Don't  ask  me." 

Lady  Lundie  fell  back  on  the  pillow. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  rose  to  ring  for  help.     Before 


68  WORKS    OF    WILKIE   COLI^INS. 

she  could  touch  the  bell,  her  ladyship  had  rallied 
again. 

"Stop!"  she  cried.  "I  can  confirm  it!  It's 
true^  Mrs.  Glenarm !  it's  true !  Open  the  silver 
box  on  the  toilet-table — you  will  find  the  key  in 
it.  Bring  me  the  top  letter.  Here !  Look  at 
it !  I  got  this  from  Blanche.  Why  have  they 
suddenly  given  up  their  bridal  tour?  Why  have 
they  gone  back  to  Sir  Patrick  at  Ham  Farm? 
AVhy  have  they  put  me  off  with  an  infamous 
subterfuge  to  account  for  it?  I  felt  sure  some- 
thing dreadful  had  happened.  Now  I  know  what 
it  is!"  She  sank  back  again,  with  closed  eyes, 
and  repeated  the  words,  in  a  fierce  whisper,  to 
herself.     "Now  I  know  what  it  is!" 

Mrs.  Glenarm  read  the  letter.  The  reason 
given  for  the  suspiciously-sudden  return  of  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  was  palpably  a  subterfuge 
— and,  more  remarkable  still,  the  name  of  Anne 
Silvester  was  connected  with  it.  Mrs.  Glenarm 
became  strongly  agitated  on  her  side. 

"This  is  a  confirmation,"  she  said.  "Mr. 
Brinkworth  has  been  found  out — the  woman  is 
married  to  him — Geoffrey  is  free.  Oh,  iny  dear 
friend,  what  a  load  of  anxiety  you  have  taken 
off  my  mind!     That  vile  wretch — " 

Lady  Lundie  suddenly  opened  her  eyes. 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  asked,  "the  woman  who 
is  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  mischief?" 

"Yes.  I  saw  her  yesterday.  She  forced  her- 
self in  at  Swanhaven.  She  called  him  Geoffrey 
Delamayn.  She  declared  herself  a  single  woman. 
She  claimed  him  before  my  face  in  the  most 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  69 

audacious  manner.  She  shook  my  faith,  Lady 
Lundie — she  shook  my  faith  in  Geoffrey!" 

"Who  is  she?" 

"Who?"  echoed  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "Don't  you 
even  know  that?  Why,  her  name  is  repeated 
half  a  dozen  times  in  this  letter!" 

Lady  Lundie  uttered  a  scream  that  rang 
through  the  room.  Mrs.  Glenarm  started  to  her 
feet.  The  maid  appeared  at  the  door  in  terror. 
Her  ladyship  motioned  to  the  woman  to  with- 
draw again  instantly,  and  then  pointed  to  Mrs. 
Glenarm's  chair. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said.  "Let  me  have  a 
minute  or  two  of  quiet.  I  want  nothing- 
more." 

The  silence  in  the  room  was  unbroken  until 
Lady  Lundie  spoke  again.  She  asked  for 
Blanche's  letter.  After  reading  it  carefully, 
she  laid  it  aside,  and  fell  for  a  while  into  deep 
thought. 

"I  have  done  Blanche  an  injustice!"  she  ex- 
claimed.    "My  poor  Blanche!" 

"You  think  she  knows  nothing  about  it?" 

"I  am  certain  of  it!  You  forget,  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm, that  this  horrible  discovery  casts  a  doubt 
on  my  stepdaughter's  marriage.  Do  you  think, 
if  she  knew  the  truth,  she  would  write  of  a 
wretch  who  has  mortally  injured  her  as  she 
writes  here?  They  have  put  her  off  with  the 
excuse  that  she  innocently  sends  to  me.  I  see  it 
as  plainly  as  I  see  you !  Mr.  Brinkworth  and 
Sir  Patrick  are  in  league  to  keep  us  both  in  the 
dark.     Dear  child !    I  owe  her  an  atonement.    If 


70  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

nobody  else  opens  her  eyes,  I  will  do  it.  Sir 
Patrick  shall  find  that  Blanche  has  a  friend  in 
Me!" 

A  smile — the  dangerous  smile  of  an  invet- 
erately  vindictive  woman  thoroughly  roused — 
showed  itself  with  a  furtive  suddenness  on  her 
face.  Mrs.  Glenarm  was  a  little  startled.  Lady 
Lundie  below  the  surface — as  distinguished  from 
Lady  Lundie  on  the  surface — was  not  a  pleasant 
object  to  contemplate. 

"Pray  try  to  compose  yourself,"  said  Mrs. 
Glenarm.  "Dear  Lady  Lundie,  you  frighten 
me!" 

The  bland  surface  of  her  ladyship  appeared 
smoothly  once  more;  drawn  back,  as  it  were, 
over  the  hidden  inner  self,  which  it  had  left  for 
the  moment  exposed  to  view. 

"Forgive  me  for  feeling  it!"  she  said,  with 
the  patient  sweetness  which  so  eminently  distin- 
guished her  in  times  of  trial.  "It  falls  a  little 
heavily  on  a  poor  sick  woman — innocent  of  .all 
suspicion  and  insulted  by  the  most  heartless  neg- 
lect. Don't  let  me  distress  you.  I  shall  rally, 
my  dear ;  I  shall  rally !  In  this  dreadful  calam- 
ity— this  abyss  of  crime  and  misery  and  deceit — 
I  have  no  one  to  depend  on  but  myself.  For 
Blanche's  sake,  the  whole  thing  must  be  cleared 
up — probed,  my  dear,  probed  to  the  depths. 
Blanche  must  take  a  position  that  is  worthy  of 
her.  Blanche  must  insist  on  her  rights,  under 
My  protection.  Never  mind  what  I  suffer,  or 
what  I  sacrifice.  There  is  a  work  of  justice  for 
poor  weak  Me  to  do.     It  shall  be  done!"  said 


MAN   AND   WIFE,  71 

her  ladyship,  fanning  herself  with  an  aspect  of 
illimitable  resolution.     "It  shall  be  done!" 

"But,  Lady  Lundie,  what  can  you  do?  They 
are  all  away  in  the  South.  And  as  for  that 
abominable  woman — " 

Lady  Lundie  touched  Mrs.  Glenarm  on  the 
shoulder  with  her  fan. 

"I  have  my  surprise  in  store,  dear  friend,  as 
well  as  you.  That  abominable  woman  was  em- 
ployed as  Blanche's  governess  in  this  house. 
Wait !  that  is  not  all.  She  left  us  suddenly — ran 
away — on  the  pretense  of  being  privately  mar- 
ried. I  know  where  she  went.  I  can  trace  what 
she  did.  I  can  find  out  who  was  with  her.  I 
can  follow  Mr.  Brinkworth's  proceedings,  behind 
Mr.  Brinkworth's  back.  I  can  search  out  the 
truth,  without  depending  on  people  compromised 
in  this  black  business,  whose  interest  it  is  to  de- 
ceive me.  And  I  will  do  it  to-day!"  She  closed 
the  fan  with  a  sharp  snap  of  triumph,  and  set- 
tled herself  on  the  pillow  in  placid  enjoyment  of 
her  dear  friend's  surprise. 

Mrs.  Glenarm  drew  confidentially  closer  to  the 
bedside.  "How  can  you  manage  it?"  she  asked, 
eagerly.  "Don't  think  me  curious.  I  have  my 
interest,  too,  in  getting  at  the  truth.  Don't 
leave  me  out  of  it,  pray!" 

"Can  you  come  back  to-morrow  at  this  time?" 

"Yes!  yes!" 

"Come,  then — and  you  shall  know." 

"Can  I  be  of  any  use?" 

"Not  at  present." 

"Can  my  uncle  be  of  any  use?" 


72  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"Do  you  know  where  to  communicate  with 
Captain  Newenden?" 

"Yes — he  is  staying  with  some  friends  in 
Sussex." 

"  We  may  possibly  want  his  assistance.  I  can't 
tell  yet.  Don't  keep  Mrs.  Delamayn  waiting  any 
longer,  my  dear.     I  shall  expect  you  to-morrow. ' ' 

They  exchanged  an  affectionate  embrace.  Lady 
Lundie  was  left  alone. 

Her  ladyship  resigned  herself  to  meditation, 
with  frowning  brow  and  close-shut  lips.  She 
looked  her  full  age,  and  a  year  or  two  more,  as 
she  lay  thinking,  with  her  head  on  her  hand, 
and  her  elbow  on  the  pillow.  After  committing 
herself  to  the  physician  (and  to  the  red  lavender 
draught),  the  commonest  regard  for  consistency 
made  it  necessary  that  she  should  keep  her  bed 
for  that  day.  And  yet  it  was  essential  that  the 
proposed  inquiries  should  be  instantly  set  on 
foot.  On  the  one  hand,  the  problem  was  not  an 
easy  one  to  solve ;  on  the  other,  her  ladyship  was 
not  an  easy  one  to  beat.  How  to  send  for  the 
landlady  at  Craig  Fernie,  without  exciting  any 
special  suspicion  or  remark — was  the  question 
before  her.  In  less  than  five  minutes  she  had 
looked  back  into  her  memory  of  current  events 
at  Windygates — and  had  solved  it. 

Her  first  proceeding  was  to  ring  the  bell  for 
her  maid. 

"I  am  afraid  I  frightened  you,  Hopkins.  The 
state  of  my  nerves.  Mrs.  Glenarm  was  a  little 
sudden  with  some  news  that  surprised  me.  I 
am  better  now — and  able  to  attend  to  the  house- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  78 

hold  matters.  There  is  a  mistake  in  the  butch- 
er's account.     Send  the  cook  here." 

She  took  up  the  domestic  ledger  and  the 
kitchen  report;  corrected  the  butcher;  cau- 
tioned the  cook,  and  disposed  of  all  arrears 
of  domestic  business  before  Hopkins  was  sum- 
moned again.  Having,  in  this  way,  dexterously 
prevented  the  woman  from  connecting  anything 
that  her  mistress  said  or  did,  after  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm's  departure,  with  anything  that  might  have 
passed  during  Mrs.  Glenarm's  visit,  Lady  Lun- 
die  felt  herself  at  liberty  to  pave  the  way  for  the 
investigation  on  which  she  was  determined  to 
enter  before  she  slept  that  night. 

"So  much  for  the  indoor  arrangements,"  she 
said.  "You  must  be  my  prime  minister,  Hop- 
kins, while  I  lie  helpless  here.  Is  there  anything 
wanted  by  the  people  out-of-doors?  The  coach- 
man?    The  gardener?" 

"I  have  just  seen  the  gardener,  my  lady.  He 
came  with  last  week's  accounts.  I  told  him  he 
couldn't  see  your  ladyship  to-day." 

"Quite  right.     Had  he  any  report  to  make?" 

"No,  my  lady." 

"Surely,  there  was  something  I  wanted  to  say 
to  him — or  to  somebody  else?  My  memorandum 
book,  Hopkins.  In  the  basket,  on  that  chair. 
Why  wasn't  the  basket  placed  by  my  bedside?" 

Hopkins  brought  the  memorandum  book. 
Lady  Lundie  consulted  it  (without  the  slightest 
necessity),  with  the  same  masterly  gravity  ex- 
hibited by  the  doctor  when  he  wrote  her  pre- 
scription (without  the  slightest  necessity  also). 


74  WORKS    OF   WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"Here  it  is,"  she  said,  recovering  the  lost  re- 
membrance. "Not  the  gardener,  but  the  gar- 
dener's wife.  A  memorandum  to  speak  to  her 
about  Mrs.  Inchbare.  Observe,  Hopkins,  the 
association  of  ideas.  Mrs.  Inchbare  is  associated 
with  the  poultry ;  the  poultry  are  associated  with 
the  gardener's  wife;  the  gardener's  wife  is  asso- 
ciated with  the  gardener — and  so  the  gardener 
gets  into  my  head.  Do  you  see  it?  I  am  always 
trying  to  improve  your  mind.  You  do  see  it? 
Very  well.  Now  about  Mrs.  Inchbare.  Has 
she  been  here  again?" 

"No,  my  lady." 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure,  Hopkins,  that  I  was 
right  in  declining  to  consider  the  message  Mrs. 
Inchbare  sent  to  me  about  the  poultry.  "Why 
shouldn't  she  offer  to  take  any  fowls  that  I  can 
spare  off  my  hands?  She  is  a  respectable  wo- 
man ;  and  it  is  important  to  me  to  live  on  good 
terms  with  all  my  neighbors,  great  and  small. 
Has  she  got  a  poultry-yard  of  her  own  at  Craig 
Fernie?" 

"Yes,  my  lady.  And  beautifully  kept,  I  am 
told." 

"I  really  don't  see — on  reflection,  Hopkins — 
why  I  should  hesitate  to  deal  with  Mrs.  Inch- 
bare.  (I  don't  think  it  beneath  me  to  sell  the 
game  killed  on  my  estate  to  the  poulterer.)  What 
was  it  she  wanted  to  buy?  Some  of  my  black 
Spanish  fowls?" 

"Yes,  my  lady.  Your  ladyship's  black  Span- 
iards are  famous  all  round  the  neighborhood.  No- 
body has  got  the  breed.     And  Mrs.  Inchbare — " 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  75 

"Wants  to  share  the  distinction  of  having  the 
breed  with  me,"  said  Lady  Limdie.  "I  won't 
appear  ungracious.  I  will  see  her  myself,  as 
soon  as  I  am  a  little  better,  and  tell  her  that  I 
have  changed  my  mind.  Send  one  of  the  men  to 
Craig  Fernie  with  a  message.  I  can't  keep  a 
trifling  matter  of  this  sort  in  my  memory — send 
him  at  once,  or  I  may  forget  it.  He  is  to  say  I 
am  willing  to  see  Mrs.  Inchbare,  about  the  fowls, 
the  first  time  she  finds  it  convenient  to  come  this 
way. ' ' 

"I  am  afraid,  my  lady — Mrs.  Inchbare's  heart 
is  so  set  on  the  black  Spaniards— she  will  find  it 
convenient  to  come  this  way  at  once  as  fast  as 
her  feet  can  carry  her." 

"In  that  case,  you  must  take  her  to  the  gar- 
dener's wife.  Say  she  is  to  have  some  eggs — 
on  condition,  of  course,  of  paying  the  price  for 
them.     If  she  does  come,  mind  I  hear  of  it." 

Hopkins  withdrew.  Hopkins's  mistress  re- 
clined on  her  comfortable  pillows,  and  fanned 
herself  gently.  The  vindictive  smile  re-appeared 
on  her  face.  "I  fancy  I  shall  be  well  enough 
to  see  Mrs.  Inchbare,"  she  thought  to  herself. 
"And  it  is  just  possible  that  the  conversation 
may  get  bej^ond  the  relative  merits  of  her  poultry- 
yard  and  mine." 

A  lapse  of  little  more  than  two  hours  proved 
Hopkins's  estimate  of  the  latent  enthusiasm  in 
Mrs.  Inchbare's  character  to  have  been  correctly 
formed.  The  eager  landlady  appeared  at  Windy- 
gates  on  the  heels  of  the  returning  servant. 
Among  the  long  list  of  human  weaknesses,  a 


76  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

passion  for  poultry  seems  to  have  its  practical 
advantages  (in  the  shape  of  eggs)  as  compared 
with  the  more  occult  frenzies  for  collecting  snuff- 
boxes and  fiddles,  and  amassing  autographs  and 
old  postage-stamps.  When  the  mistress  of  Craig 
Fernie  was  duly  announced  to  the  mistress  of 
Windygates,  Lady  Lundie  developed  a  sense  of 
humor  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  Her  lady- 
ship was  feebly  merry  (the  result,  no  doubt,  of 
the  exhilarating  properties  of  the  red  lavender 
draught)  on  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Inchbare  and 
the  Spanish  fowls. 

"Most  ridiculous,  Hopkins!  This  poor  woman 
must  be  suffering  from  a  determination  of  poul- 
try to  the  brain.  Ill  as  I  am,  I  should  have 
thought  that  nothing  could  amuse  me.  But, 
really,  this  good  creature  starting  up  and  rush- 
ing here,  as  you  say,  as  fast  as  her  feet  can  carry 
her — it's  impossible  to  resist  it!  I  positively 
think  I  must  see  Mrs.  Inchbare.  With  my  act- 
ive habits,  this  imprisonment  to  my  room  is 
dreadful.  I  can  neither  sleep  nor  read.  Any- 
thing, Hopkins,  to  divert  my  mind  from  myself. 
It's  easy  to  get  rid  of  her  if  she  is  too  much  for 
me.     Send  her  up." 


CHAPTER  THE   FORTY-FIRST. 

LADY  LUNDIE  DOES  HER  DUTY. 

Mrs.  Inchbare  made  her  appearance,  courte- 
sying  deferentially;  amazed  at  the  condescen- 
sion which  admitted  her  within  the  hallowed 
precincts  of  Lady  Lundie's  room. 

"Take  a  chair,"  said  her  ladyship,  graciously. 
"I  am  suffering  from  illness,  as  you  perceive." 

"My  certie!  sick  or  well,  yer  leddyship's  a 
braw  sight  to  see!"  returned  Mrs.  Inchbare, 
profoundly  impressed  by  the  elegant  costume 
which  illness  assumes  when  illness  appears  in 
the  regions  of  high  life. 

"I  am  far  from  being  in  a  fit  state  to  receive 
anybody,"  proceeded  Lady  Lundie.  "But  I  had 
a  motive  for  wishing  to  speak  to  you  when  you 
next  came  to  my  house.  I  failed  to  treat  a  pro- 
posal you  made  to  me,  a  short  time  since,  in 
a  friendly  and  neighborly  way.  I  beg  you  to 
understand  that  I  regret  having  forgotten  the 


78  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

consideration  due  from  a  person  in  my  position 
to  a  person  in  yours.  I  am  obliged  to  say  this 
under  very  unusual  circumstances,"  added  her 
ladyship,  with  a  glance  round  her  magnificent 
bedroom,  "through  your  unexpected  promptitude 
in  favoring  me  with  a  call.  You  have  lost  no 
time,  Mrs,  Inchbare,  in  profiting  by  the  message 
which  I  had  the  pleasure  of  sending  to  you. ' ' 

"Eh,  my  leddy,  I  wasna  that  sure  (yer  leddy- 
ship  having  ance  changed  yer  mind)  but  that 
ye  might  e'en  change  again  if  I  failed  to  strike, 
as  they  say,  while  the  iron's  het.  I  crave  yer 
pardon,  I'm  sure,  if  I  ha'  been  ower  hasty.  The 
pride  o'  my  hairt's  in  my  powltry — and  the 
'black  Spaniards'  (as  they  ca'  them)  are  a  sair 
temptation  to  me  to  break  the  tenth  command- 
ment, sae  lang  as  they're  a'  in  yer  leddyship's 
possession,  and  nane  o'  them  in  mine." 

"I  am  shocked  to  hear  that  I  have  been  the 
innocent  cause  of  your  falling  into  temptation, 
Mrs.  Inchbare!  Make  your  proposal — and  I 
shall  be  happy  to  meet  it,  if  I  can. ' ' 

"I  must  e'en  be  content  wi'  what  yer  leddy- 
ship  wiU  condescend  on.  A  haitch  o'  eggs  if  I 
can  come  by  naething  else. ' ' 

"There  is  something  else  you  would  prefei  to 
a  hatch  of  eggs?" 

"I  wad  prefer, "  said  Mrs.  Inchbare,  modestly, 
"a  cock  and  twa  pullets." 

"Open  the  case  on  the  t'cMe  behind  you,"  said 
Lady  Lundie,  "and  you  will  find  some  writing- 
paper  inside.  Give  me  a  sheet  of  it — and  the 
pencil  out  of  the  traj^." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  79 

Eagerly  watched  by  Mrs.  Inchbare,  she  wrote 
an  order  to  the  poultry- woman,  and  held  it  out 
with  a*gracious  smile. 

"Take  that  to  the  gardener's  wife.  If  you 
agree  with  her  about  the  price,  you  can  have 
the  cock  and  the  two  pullets." 

Mrs.  Inchbare  opened  her  lips — no  doubt  to 
express  the  utmost  extremity  of  human  grati- 
tude. Before  she  had  said  three  words,  Lady 
Lundie's  impatience  to  reach  the  end  which  she 
had  kept  in  view  from  the  time  when  Mrs. 
Glenarm  had  left  the  house  burst  the  bounds 
which  had  successfully  restrained  it  thus  far. 
Stopping  the  landlady  without  ceremony,  she 
fairly  forced  the  conversation  to  the  subject  of 
Anne  Silvester's  proceedings  at  the  Craig  Fernie 
inn, 

"How  are  you  getting  on  at  the  hotel,  Mrs. 
Inchbare?  Plenty  o^  tourists,  I  suppose,  at  this 
time  of  year?" 

"Full,  my  leddy  (praise  Providence),  frae  the 
basement  to  the  ceiling. ' ' 

"You  had  a  visitor,  I  think,  some  time  since 
of  whom  I  know  something?  A  person — "  She 
paused,  and  put  a  strong  constraint  on  herself. 
There  was  no  alternative  but  to  yield  to  the  hard 
necessity  of  making  her  inquiry  intelligible. 
"A  lady,"  she  added,  "who  came  to  you  about 
the  middle  of  It^st  month." 

"Could  yer  leddyship  condescend  on  her 
name?" 

Lady  Lundie  put  a  still  stronger  constraint  on 
herself.     "Silvester,"  she  said,  sharply. 


80  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"Presairve  us  a'!"  cried  Mrs.  Inchbare.  "It 
will  never  be  the  same  that  cam'  driftin'  in  by 
hersel' — wi'  a  bit  bag  in  her  hand,  anS  a  hus- 
band left  daidling  an  hour  or  mair  on  the  road 
behind  her?" 

"I  have  no  doubt  it  is  the  same." 

"Will  she  be  a  freend  o'  your  leddyship's?" 
asked  Mrs.  Inchbare,  feeling  her  ground  cau- 
tiously. 

"Certainly  not!"  said  Lady  Lundie.  "I  felt 
a  passing  curiosity  about  her — nothing  more." 

Mrs.  Inchbare  looked  relieved.  "To  tell  ye 
truth,  my  leddy,  there  was  nae  love  lost  between 
us.  She  had  a  maisterfu'  temper  o'  her  ain — 
and  I  was  weel  pleased  when  I'd  seen  the  last  of 
her." 

"I  can  quite  understand  that,  Mrs.  Inchbare 
— I  know  something  of  her  temper  myself.  Did 
I  understand  you  to  say  that  she  came  to  your 
hotel  alone,  and  that  her  husband  joined  her 
shortly  afterward?" 

"E'en  sae,  yer  leddyship.  I  was  no'  free  to 
gi'  her  house-room  in  the  hottle  till  her  husband 
daidled  in  at  her  heels  and  answered  for  her." 

' '  I  fancy  I  must  have  seen  her  husband, ' '  said 
Lady  Lundie.     "What  sort  of  a  man  was  he?" 

Mrs.  Inchbare  replied  in  much  the  same  words 
which  she  had  used  in  answering  the  similar 
question  put  by  Sir  Patrick. 

"Eh!  he  was  ower  young  for  the  like  o'  her. 
A  pratty  man,  my  leddy — betwixt  tall  and  short ; 
wi'  bonny  brown  eyes  and  cheeks,  and  fine  coal- 
blaik  hair.     A  nice  douce-spoken   lad.      I  hae 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  81 

naething  to  say  against  him — except  that  he 
cam'  late  one  day,  and  took  leg-bail  betimes  the 
next  morning,  and  left  madam  behind,  a  load  on 
my  hands." 

The  answer  produced  precisely  the  same  effect 
on  Lady  Lundie  which  it  had  produced  on  Sir 
Patrick.  She,  also,  felt  that  it  was  too  vaguely 
like  too  many  young  men  of  no  uncommon  hu- 
mor and  complexion  to  be  relied  on.  But  her 
ladyship  possessed  one  immense  advantage  over 
her  brother-in-law  in  attempting  to  arrive  at  the 
truth.  5^  7ie  suspected  Arnold — and  it  was  possi- 
ble, in  her  case,  to  assist  Mrs.  Inchbare's  mem- 
ory by  hints  contributed  from  her  own  superior 
resources  of  experience  and  observation. 

"Had  he  anything  about  him  of  the  look  and 
way  of  a  sailor?"  she  asked.  "And  did  you 
notice,  when  you  spoke  to  him,  that  he  had  a 
habit  of  playing  with  a  locket  on  his  watch- 
chain?" 

"There  he  is,  het  aff  to  a  T!"  cried  Mrs. 
Inchbare.  "  Yer  leddyship's  weel  acquented  wi' 
him — there's  nae  doot  o'  that." 

"I  thought  I  had  seen  him,"  said  Lady  Lun- 
die. "A  modest,  well-behaved  young  man,  Mrs. 
Inchbare,  as  j^ou  say.  Don't  let  me  keep  you 
any  longer  from  the  poultry-yard.  I  am  trans- 
gressing the  doctor's  orders  in  seeing  anybody. 
We  quite  understand  each  other  now,  don't  we? 
Very  glad  to  have  seen  you.     Good-evening." 

So  she  dismissed  Mrs.  Inchbare,  when  Mrs. 
Inchbare  had  served  her  purpose. 

Most  women,  in  her  position,  would  have  been 


82  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

content  with  the  information  which  she  had  now 
obtained.  But  Lady  Lundie — having  a  man 
like  Sir  Patrick  to  deal  with — determined  to  be 
doubly  sure  of  her  facts  before  she  ventured  on 
interfering  at  Ham  Farm.  She  had  learned  from 
Mrs.  Inchbare  that  the  so-called  husband  of  Anne 
Silvester  had  joined  her  at  Craig  Fernie  on  the 
day  when  she  arrived  at  the  inn,  and  had  left 
her  again  the  next  morning.  Anne  had  made 
her  escape  from  Windygates  on  the  occasion  of  the 
lawn-party — that  is  to  say,  on  the  fourteenth  of 
August.  On  the  same  day  Arnold  Brinkworth 
had  taken  his  departure  for  the  purpose  of  visit- 
ing the  Scotch  property  left  to  him  by  his  aunt. 
If  Mrs.  Inchbare  was  to  be  depended  on,  he  must 
have  gone  to  Craig  Fernie  instead  of  going  to  his 
appointed  destination — and  must,  therefore,  have 
arrived  to  visit  his  house  and  lands  one  day  later 
than  the  day  which  he  had  originally  set  apart 
for  that  purpose.  If  this  fact  could  be  proved 
on  the  testimony  of  a  disinterested  witness,  the 
case  against  Arnold  would  be  strengthened  ten- 
fold; and  Lady  Lundie  might  act  on  her  dis- 
covery with  something  like  a  certainty  that  her 
information  was  to  be  relied  on. 

After  a  little  consideration  she  decided  on  send- 
ing a  messenger  with  a  note  of  inquiry  addressed 
to  Arnold's  steward.  The  apology  she  invented 
to  excuse  and  account  for  the  strangeness  of  the 
proposed  question  referred  it  to  a  little  family 
discussion  as  to  the  exact  date  of  Arnold's  ar- 
rival at  his  estate,  and  to  a  friendly  wager  in 
which  the  difference  of  opinion  had  ended.     If 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  83 

the  steward  could  state  whether  his  employer 
had  arrived  on  the  fourteenth  or  on  the  fifteenth 
of  August,  that  was  aU  that  would  be  wanted 
to  decide  the  question  in  dispute. 

Having  written  in  those  terms,  Lady  Lundie 
gave  the  necessary  directions  for  having  the 
note  delivered  at  the  earliest  possible  hour  on  the 
next  morning ;  the  messenger  being  ordered  to 
make  his  way  back  to  Windygates  by  the  first 
return  train  on  the  same  day. 

This  arranged,  her  lad5^ship  was  free  to  re- 
fresh herself  with  another  dose  of  the  red  lav- 
ender draught,  and  to  sleep  the  sleep  of  the  just, 
who  close  their  eyes  with  the  composing  convic- 
tion that  they  have  done  their  duty. 

The  events  of  the  next  day  at  Windygates 
succeeded  each  other  in  due  course,  as  follows : 

The  post  arrived,  and  brought  no  reply  from 
Sir  Patrick.  Lady  Lundie  entered  that  incident 
on  her  mental  register  of  debts  owed  by  her 
brother-in-law — to  be  paid,  with  interest,  when 
the  day  of  reckoning  came. 

Next  in  order  occurred  the  return  of  the  mes- 
senger with  the  steward's  answer. 

He  had  referred  to  his  Diary ;  and  he  had  dis- 
covered that  Mr.  Brinkworth  had  written  before- 
hand to  announce  his  arrival  at  his  estate  for  the 
fourteenth  of  August — but  that  he  had  not  act- 
ually appeared  until  the  fifteenth.  The  one  dis- 
covery needed  to  substantiate  Mrs.  Inchbare's 
evidence  being  now  in  Lady  Lundie's  possession, 
slie  decided  to  allow  another  day  to  pass — on  the 


84  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

chance  that  Sir  Patrick  might  alter  his  mind, 
and  write  to  her.  If  no  letter  arrived,  and  if 
nothing  more  was  received  from  Blanche,  she 
resolved  to  leave  Windygates  by  the  next  morn- 
ing's train,  and  to  try  the  bold  experiment  of 
personal  interference  at  Ham  Farm. 

The  third  in  the  succession  of  events  was  the 
appearance  of  the  doctor  to  pay  his  professional 
visit. 

A  severe  shock  awaited  him.  He  found  his 
patient  cured  by  the  draught !  It  was  contrary 
to  all  rule  and  precedent ;  it  savored  of  quackery 
— the  red  lavender  had  no  business  to  do  what 
the  red  lavender  had  done — but  there  she  was, 
nevertheless,  up  and  dressed,  and  contemplating 
a  journey  to  London  on  the  next  day  but  one. 
"An  act  of  duty,  doctor,  is  involved  in  this — 
whatever  the  sacrifice,  I  must  go!"  No  other 
explanation  could  be  obtained.  The  patient  was 
plainly  determined — nothing  remained  for  the 
physician  but  to  retreat  with  unimpaired  dig- 
nity, and  a  paid  fee.  He  did  it.  "Our  art," 
he  explained  to  Lady  Lundie  in  confidence,  "is 
nothing,  after  all,  but  a  choice  between  alterna- 
tives. For  instance.  I  see  you — not  cured,  as 
you  think — but  sustained  by  abnormal  excite- 
ment. I  have  to  ask  which  is  the  least  of  the 
two  evils — to  risk  letting  you  travel,  or  to  irri- 
tate you  by  keeping  you  at  home.  With  your 
constitution,  we  must  risk  the  journey.  Be  care- 
ful to  keep  the  window  of  the  carriage  up  on  the 
side  on  which  the  wind  blows.  Let  the  extrem- 
ities be  moderately  warm,  and  the  mind  easy — 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  85 

and  pray  don't  omit  to  provide  yourself  with  a 
second  bottle  of  the  Mixture  before  you  start. ' ' 
He  made  his  bow,  as  before — he  slipped  two 
guineas  into  his  pocket,  as  before — and  he  went 
his  way,  as  before,  with  an  approving  conscience, 
in  the  character  of  a  physician  who  had  done 
his  duty,  (What  an  enviable  prof ession  is  Med- 
icine!    And  why  don't  we  all  belong  to  it?) 

The  last  of  the  events  was  the  arrival  of  Mrs. 
Glenarm. 

"Well,"  she  began,  eagerly,  "what  news?" 

The  narrative  of  her  ladyship's  discoveries — 
recited  at  full  length ;  and  the  announcement  of 
her  ladyship's  resolution — declared  in  the  most 
uncompromising  terms — raised  Mrs.  Glenarm's 
excitement  to  the  highest  pitch. 

"You  go  to  town  on  Saturday?"  she  said. 
"I  will  go  with  you.  Ever  since  that  woman 
declared  she  should  be  in  London  before  me,  T 
have  been  dying  to  hasten  my  journey — and  it 
is  such  an  opportunity  to  go  with  you !  I  can 
easily  manage  it.  My  uncle  and  I  were  to  have 
met  in  London,  early  next  week,  for  the  foot- 
race. I  have  only  to  write  and  tell  him  of  my 
change  of  plans. — By-the-by,  talking  of  my 
uncle,  I  have  heard,  since  I  saw  you,  from  the 
lawyers  at  Perth. ' ' 

"More  anonymous  letters?" 
'  "One  more — received  by  the  lawyers  this  time. 
My  unknown  correspondent  has  written  to  them 
to  withdraw  his  proposal,  and  to  announce  that 
he  has  left  Perth,  The  lawyers  recommended 
me  to  stop  my  uncle  from  spending  money  use- 


86  WORK3   OF   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

lessly  in  employing  the  London  police.  I  have 
forwarded  their  letter  to  the  captain ;  and  he  will 
probably  be  in  town  to  see  his  solicitors  as  soon 
as  I  get  there  with  you.  So  much  for  what  I 
have  done  in  this  matter.  Dear  Lady  Lundie — 
when  we  are  at  our  journey's  end,  what  do  you 
mean  to  do?" 

"My  course  is  plain,"  answered  her  ladyship, 
calmly.  "Sir  Patrick  will  hear  from  me,  on  Sun- 
day morning  next,  at  Ham  Farm." 

"Telling  him  what  you  have  found  out?" 
"Certainly  not!     Telling  him  that  I  find  my- 
self called  to  London  by  business,  and  that  I  pro- 
pose paying  him  a  short  visit  on  Monday  next." 
"Of  course,  he  must  receive  you?" 
"I  think  there  is  no  doubt  of  that.     Even  his 
hatred  of  his  brother's  widow  can  hardly  go  to 
the  length — after  leaving  my  letter  unanswered 
— of  closing  his  doors  against  me  next. ' ' 

' '  How  will  you  manage  it  when  you  get  there  ? ' ' 
"When  I  get  there,  my  dear,  I  shall  be  breath- 
ing an  atmosphere  of  treachery  and  deceit,  and, 
for  my  poor  child's  sake  (abhorrent  as  all  dis- 
simulation is  to  me),  I  must  be  careful  what  I 
do.  Not  a  word  will  escape  my  lips  until  I  have 
first  seen  Blanche  in  private.  However  painful 
it  may  be,  I  shall  not  shrink  from  my  duty,  if 
my  duty  compels  me  to  open  her  eyes  to  the 
truth.  Sir  Patrick  and  Mr.  Brinkworth  will 
have  somebody  else  besides  an  inexperienced 
young  creature  to  deal  with  on  Monday  next. 
I  shall  be  there." 

With    that   formidable  announcement,   Lady 


MAN    AND   WIPE.  87 

Lundie  closed  the  conversation;  and  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm  rose  to  take  her  leave. 

"We  meet  at  the  Junction,  dear  Lady  Lun- 
die?" 

"At  the  Junction,  on  Saturday." 


ELEVENTH   SCENE.— SIR    PATRICK'S 
HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  THE   FORTY-SECOND. 

THE   SMOKING-ROOM   WINDOW. 

"I  can't  beheve  it!  I  won't  believe  it! 
You're  trying  to  part  me  frorii  my  husband — 
you're  trying  to  set  me  against  my  dearest 
friend.  It's  infamous.  It's  horrible.  What 
have  i  done  to  you?  Oil,  my  head!  my  head! 
Are  you  trying  to  drive  me  mad?" 

Pale  and  wild;  her  hands  twisted  in  her  hair; 
her  feet  hurrying  her  aimlessly  to  and  fro  in  the 
room — so  Blanche  answered  her  stepmother, 
when  the  object  of  Lady  Lundie's  pilgrimage 
had  been  accomplished,  and  the  cruel  truth  had 
been  plainly  told. 

Her  ladyship  sat,  superbly  composed,  looking 
out  through  the  window  at  the  placid  landscape 
of  woods  and  fields  which  surrounded  Ham  Farm. 


88  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"I  was  prepared  for  this  outbreak,"  she  said, 
sadly.  "These  wild  words  relieve  your  over- 
burdened heart,  my  poor  child.  I  can  wait, 
Blanche — I  can  wait!" 

Blanche  stopped,  and  confronted  Lady  Lundie. 

"You  and  I  never  liked  each  other,"  she  said. 
"I  wrote  you  a  pert  letter  from  this  place.  I 
have  always  taken  Anne's  part  against  you. 
I  have  shown  you  plainly — rudely,  I  dare  say — 
that  I  was  glad  to  be  married  and  get  away  from 
you.     This  is  not  your  revenge,  is  it?" 

"Oh,  Blanche,  Blanche,  what  thoughts  to 
think !  what  words  to  say !  I  can  only  pray  for 
you." 

"I  am  mad.  Lady  Lundie.  You  bear  with 
mad  people.  Bear  with  me.  I  have  been  hardly 
more  than  a  fortnight  married.  I  love  him — I 
love  her — with  all  my  heart.  Remember  what 
you  have  told  me  about  them.  Remember!  re- 
member! remember!" 

She  reiterated  the  words  with  a  low  cr^  of 
pain.  Her  hands  went  up  to  her  head  again ; 
and  she  returned  restlessly  to  pacing  this  way 
and  that  in  the  room. 

Lady  Lundie  tried  the  effect  of  a  gentle  re- 
monstrance. ' '  For  your  own  sake, ' '  she  said, 
"don't  persist  in  estranging  j^ourself  from  me. 
In  this  dreadful  trial,  I  am  the  only  friend  you 
have." 

Blanche  came  back  to  her  stepmother's  chair, 
and  looked  at  her  steadily,  in  silence.  Lady 
Lundie  submitted  to  inspection — and  bore  it 
perfectly. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  89 

"Look  into  my  heart,"  she  said.  "Blanche! 
it  bleeds  for  you!" 

Blanche  heard,  without  heeding.  Her  mind 
was  painfully  intent  on  its  own  thoughts.  "You 
are  a  religious  woman,"  she  said,  abruptly. 
' '  Will  you  swear  on  your  Bible  that  what  you 
told  me  is  true?" 

^^My  Bible!"  repeated  Lady  Lundie,  with 
sorrowful  emphasis.  "Oh,  my  child!  have  you 
no  part  in  that  precious  inheritance?  Is  it  not 
your  Bible,  too?" 

A  momentary  triumph  showed  itself  in 
Blanche's  face,  "You  daren't  swear  it!"  she 
said.     "That's  enough  for  me!" 

She  turned  away  scornfully.  Lady  Lundie 
caught  her  by  the  hand,  and  drew  her  sharply 
back.  The  suffering  saint  disappeared,  and  the 
woman  who  was  no  longer  to  be  trifled  with  took 
her  place. 

"There  must  be  an  end  to  this,"  she  said. 
"You  don't  believe  what  I  have  told  you.  Have 
you  courage  enough  to  put  it  to  the  test?" 

Blanche  started,  and  released  her  hand.  She 
trembled  a  little.  There  was  a  horrible  certainty 
of  conviction  expressed  in  Lady  Lundie's  sudden 
change  of  manner. 

"How?"  she  asked. 

"You  shall  see.  Tell  me  the  truth,  on  your 
side,  first.  Where  is  Sir  Patrick?  Is  he  really 
out,  as  his  servant  told  me?" 

"Yes,  He  is  out  with  the  farm  bailiff.  You 
have  taken  us  all  by  surprise.  You  wrote  that 
we  were  to  expect  you  by  the  next  train." 


90  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"When  does  the  next  train  arrive?  It  is 
eleven  o'clock  now." 

"Between  one  and  two. " 

"Sir  Patrick  will  not  be  back  till  then?" 

"Not  till  then." 

"Where  is  Mr.  Brinkworth?" 

"My  husband?" 

"Your  husband ^ — if  you  like.    Is  he  out,  too?" 

"He  is  in  the  smoking-room." 

"Do  you  mean  the  long  room,  built  out  from 
the  back  of  the  house?" 

"Yes." 

"Come  downstairs  at  once  with  me." 

Blanche  advanced  a  step — and  drew  back. 
"What  do  you  want  of  me?"  she  asked,  inspired 
by  a  sudden  distrust. 

Lady  Lundie  turned  round,  and  looked  at  her 
impatiently. 

"Can't  you  see  yet,"  she  said,  sharply,  "that 
your  interest  and  my  interest  in  this  matter  are 
one?     What  have  I  told  you?" 

"Don't  repeat  it!" 

"I  must  repeat  it!  I  have  told  you  that  Ar- 
nold Brinkworth  was  privately  at  Craig  Fernie, 
with  Miss  Silvester,  in  the  acknowledged  char- 
acter of  her  husband — when  we  supposed  him 
to  be  visiting  the  estate  left  him  by  his  aunt. 
You  refuse  to  believe  it — and  I  am  about  to  put 
it  to  the  proof.  Is  it  your  interest  or  is  it  not,  to 
know  whether  this  man  deserves  the  blind  belief 
that  you  place  in  him?" 

Blanche  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  and  made 
no  reply. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  IJl 

"I  am  going  into  the  garden,  to  speak  to 
Mr.  Brinkworth  through  the  smoking-room  win- 
dow," pursued  her  ladyship.  "Have  you  the 
courage  to  corne  with  me ;  to  wait  behind  out  of 
sight ;  and  to  hear  what  he  says  with  his  own 
lips?  I  am  not  afraid  of  putting  it  to  that  test. 
Are  you?" 

The  tone  in  which  she  asked  the  question 
roused  Blanche's  spirit. 

"If  I  believed  him  to  be  guilty,"  she  said, 
resolutely,  "I  should  not  have  the  courage.  I 
believe  him  to  be  innocent.  Lead  the  way,  Lady 
Lundie,  as  soon  as  you  please. ' ' 

They  left  the  room — Blanche's  own  room  at 
Ham  Farm — and  descended  to  the  hall.  Lady 
Lundie  stopped,  and  consulted  the  railway  time- 
table hanging  near  the  house- door. 

"There  is  a  train  to  London  at  a  quarter  to 
twelve,"  she  said.  "How  long  does  it  take  to 
walk  to  the  station?" 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"You  will  soon  know.  Answer  my  question." 

"It's a  walk  of  twenty  minutes  to  the  station." 

Lady  Lundie  referred  to  her  watch.  "There 
will  be  just  time,"  she  said. 

"Time  for  what?" 

"Come  into  the  garden." 

With  that  answer,  she  led  the  way  out. 

The  smoking-room  projected  at  right  angles 
from  the  wall  of  the  house,  in  an  oblong  form — 
with  a  bow-window  at  the  further  end,  looking 
into  the  garden.  Before  she  turned  the  corner, 
and  showed  herself  within   the  range  of  view 


92  WORKS    OF    WILKIE   COLLINS. 

from  the  window,  Lady  Lundie  looked  back, 
and  signed  to  Blanche  to  wait  behind  the  angle 
of  the  wall.     Blanche  waited. 

The  next  instant  she  heard  the  voices  in  con- 
versation through  the  open  window.  Arnold's 
voice  was  the  first  that  spoke. 

"Lady  Lundie!  Why,  we  didn't  expect  you 
till  luncheon- time!" 

Lady  Lundie  was  ready  with  her  answer. 

"I  was  able  to  leave  town  earlier  than  I  had 
anticipated.  Don't  put  out  your  cigar;  and 
don't  move.     I  am  not  coming  in. " 

The  quick  interchange  of  question  and  an- 
swer went  on — every  word  being  audible  in  the 
pefect  stillness  of  the  place.  Arnold  was  the 
next  to  speak. 

"Have  you  seen  Blanche?" 

"Blanche  is  getting  ready  to  go  out  with  me. 
We  mean  to  have  a  walk  together.  I  have  many 
things  to  say  to  her.  Before  we  go,  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  2/ow." 

"Is  it  anything  very  serious?" 

"It  is  most  serious." 

"About  me?" 

"About  you.  I  know  where  you  went  on  the 
evening  of  my  lawn-party  at  Windygates — you 
went  to  Craig  Fernie. " 

"Good  heavens!  how  did  you  find  out — ?" 

"I  know  whom  you  went  to  meet — Miss  Sil- 
vester. I  know  what  is  said  of  you  and  of  her 
— you  are  man  and  wife." 

"Hush!  don't  speak  so  loud.  Somebody  may 
hear  you!" 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  93 

"What  does  it  matter  if  they  do?  I  am  the 
only  person  whom  you  have  kept  out  of  the  se- 
cret.    You  all  of  you  know  it  here." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort!  Blanche  doesn't  know 
it." 

"What!  Neither  you  nor  Sir  Patrick  has  told 
Blanche  of  the  situation  you  stand  in  at  this 
moment?" 

"Not  yet.  Sir  Patrick  leaves  it  to  me.  I 
haven't  been  able  to  bring  myself  to  do  it.  Don't 
say  a  word,  I  entreat  you !  I  don't  know  how 
Blanche  may  interpret  it.  Her  friend  is  expected 
in  London  to-morrow.  I  want  to  wait  till  Sir 
Patrick  can  bring  them  together.  Her  friend 
will  break  it  to  her  better  than  I  can.  It's  my 
notion.  Sir  Patrick  thinks  it  a  good  one.  Stop ! 
you're  not  going  away  already?" 

"She  will  be  here  to  look  for  me  if  I  stay  any 
longer. ' ' 

"One  word!     I  want  to  know — " 

"You  shall  know  later  in  the  day." 

Her  ladyship  appeared  again  round  the  angle 
of  the  wall.  The  next  words  that  passed  were 
words  spoken  in  a  whisper. 

"Are  you  satisfied  now,  Blanche?" 

"Have  you  mercy  enough  left,  Lady  Lundie, 
to  take  me  away  from  this  house?" 

' '  My  dear  child !  Why  else  did  I  look  at  the 
time-table  in  the  hall?" 


Vol.  4  4— 


94  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

CHAPTER   THE   FORTY-THIRD. 

THE   EXPLOSION. 

Arnold's  mind  was  far  from  easy  when  he 
was  left  by  himself  again  in  the  smoking-room. 

After  wasting  some  time  in  vainly  trying  to 
guess  at  the  source  from  which  Lady  Lundie 
had  derived  her  information,  he  put  on  his  hat 
and  took  the  direction  which  led  to  Blanche's 
favorite  walk  at  Ham  Farm.  Without  abso- 
lutely distrusting  her  ladyship's  discretion,  the 
idea  had  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  do  well 
to  join  his  wife  and  her  stepmother.  By  making 
a  third  at  the  interview  between  them,  he  might 
prevent  the  conversation  from  assuming  a  peril- 
ously confidential  turn. 

The  search  for  the  ladies  proved  useless.  They 
had  not  taken  the  direction  in  which  he  supposed 
them  to  have  gone. 

He  returned  to  the  smoking-room,  and  com- 
posed himself  to  wait  for  events  as  patiently  as 
he  might.  In  this  passive  position — with  his- 
thoughts  still  running  on  Lady  Lundie — his 
memory  reverted  to  a  brief  conversation  between 
Sir  Patrick  and  himself,  occasioned,  on  the  pre- 
vious day,  by  her  ladyship's  announcement  of 
her  proposed  visit  to  Ham  Farm.  Sir  Patrick 
had  at  once  expressed  his  conviction  that  his 
sister-in-law's  journey  South  had  some  acknowl- 
edged purpose  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure,  Arnold  "  (he  had  said), 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  95 

"that  I  have  done  wisely  in  leaving  her  letter 
unanswered.  And  I  am  strongly  disposed  to 
think  that  the  safest  course  will  be  to  take  her 
into  the  secret  when  she  comes  to-morrow.  We 
can't  help  the  position  in  which  we  are  placed. 
It  was  impossible  (without  admitting  your  wife 
to  our  confidence)  to  prevent  Blanche  from  writ- 
ing that  unlucky  letter  to  her — and,  even  if  we 
had  prevented  it,  she  must  have  heard  in  other 
ways  of  your  return  to  England.  I  don't  doubt 
my  own  discretion,  so  far;  and  I  don't  doubt  the 
convenience  of  keeping  her  in  the  dark,  as  a 
means  of  keeping  her  from  meddling  in  this 
business  of  yours,  until  I  have  had  time  to  set  it 
right.  But  she  may,  by  some  unlucky  accident, 
discover  the  truth  for  herself — and,  in  that  case, 
I  strongly  distrust  the  influence  which  she  might 
attempt  to  exercise  on  Blanche's  mind." 

Those  were  the  words— and  what  had  hap- 
pened on  the  day  after  they  had  been  spoken? 
Lady  Lundie  had  discovered  the  truth ;  and  she 
was,  at  that  moment,  alone  somewhere  with 
Blanche.  Arnold  took  up  his  hat  once  more,  and 
set  forth  on  the  search  for  the  ladies  in  another 
direction. 

The  second  expedition  was  as  fruitless  as  the 
first.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen,  and  nothing  was 
to  be  heard,  of  Lady  Lundie  and  Blanche. 

Arnold's  watch  told  him  that  it  was  not  far 
from  the  time  when  Sir  Patrick  might  be  ex- 
pected to  return.  In  all  probability,  while  he 
had  been  looking  for  them,  the  ladies  had  gone 
back  by  some  other  way  to  the  house.     He  en- 


96  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

cered  the  rooms  on  the  ground-floor,  one  after 
another.  They  were  all  empty.  He  went  up- 
stairs, and  knocked  at  the  door  of  Blanche's 
room.  There  was  no  answer.  He  opened  the 
door  and  looked  in.  The  room  was  empty,  like 
the  rooms  downstairs.  But,  close  to  the  entrance, 
there  was  a  trifling  circumstance  to  attract  no- 
tice, in  the  shape  of  a  note  lying  on  the  carpet. 
He  picked  it  up,  and  saw  that  it  was  addressed 
to  him  in  the  handwriting  of  his  wife. 

He  opened  it.  The  note  began,  without  the 
usual  form  of  address,  in  these  words : 

' '  I  know  the  abominable  secret  that  you  and 
my  uncle  have  hidden  from  me.  I  know  your 
infamy,  and  her  infamy,  and  the  position  in 
which,  thanks  to  you  and  to  her,  I  now  stand. 
Reproaches  would  be  wasted  words,  addressed 
to  such  a  man  as  you  are.  I  write  these  lines  to 
tell  you  that  I  have  placed  myself  under  my  step- 
mother's protection  in  London.  It  is  useless  to 
attempt  to  follow  me.  Others  will  find  out 
whether  the  ceremony  of  marriage  which  you 
went  through  with  me  is  binding  on  you  or  not. 
For  myself,  I  know  enough  already.  I  have 
gone,  never  to  come  back,  and  never  to  let  you 
see  me  again. — Blanche." 

Hurrying  headlong  down  the  stairs  with  but 
one  clear  idea  in  his  mind — the  idea  of  instantly 
following  his  wife — Arnold  encountered  Sir 
Patrick,  standing  by  a  table  in  the  hall,  on 
which  cards  and  notes  left  by  visitors  were 
usually  placed,  with  an  open  letter  in  his  hand. 
Seeing   in  an  instant  what    had  happened,   he 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  g? 

threw  one  of  his  arms  round  Arnold,  and  stopped 
him  at  the  house-door. 

"You  are  a  man,"  he  said,  firmly.  "Bear  it 
like  a  man." 

Arnold's  head  fell  on  the  shoulder  of  his  kind 
old  friend.     He  burst  into  tears. 

Sir  Patrick  let  the  irrepressible  outbreak  of 
grief  have  its  way.  In  those  first  moments,  si- 
lence was  mercy.  He  said  nothing.  The  letter 
which  he  had  been  reading  (from  Lady  Lundie, 
it  is  needless  to  say)  dropped  unheeded  at  his 
feet. 

Arnold  lifted  his  head,  and  dashed  away  the 
tears. 

"I  am  ashamed  of  myself,"  he  said.  "Let 
me  go." 

"Wrong,  my  poor  fellow — doubly  wrong!" 
returned  Sir. Patrick.  "There  is  no  shame  in 
shedding  such  tears  as  those.  And  there  is 
nothing  to  be  done  by  leaving  7we." 

"I  must  and  will  see  her!" 

"Read  that,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  pointing  to  the 
letter  on  the  floor.  "See  your  wife?  Your  wife 
is  with  the  woman  who  has  written  those  lines. 
Read  them." 

Arnold  read  them. 

"Dear  Sir  Patrick— If  you  had  honored 
me  with  your  confidence,  I  should  have  been 
happy  to  consult  you  before  I  interfered  to  rescue 
Blanche  from  the  position  in  which  Mr.  Brink- 
worth  has  placed  her.  As  it  is,  your  late  broth- 
er's child  is  under  my  protection  at  my  house  in 


98  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

London.  If  you  attempt  to  exercise  your  au- 
thority, it  must  be  by  main  force — I  will  submit 
to  nothing  less.  If  Mr.  Brinkworth  attempts  to 
exercise  his  authority,  he  shall  establish  his 
right  to  do  so  (if  he  can)  in  a  police-court. 
"Very  truly  yours, 

"Julia  Lundie." 

Arnold's  resolution  was  not  to  be  shaken  even 
by  this.  "What  do  I  care,"  he  burst  out,  hotly, 
"whether  I  am  dragged  through  the  streets  by 
the  police  or  not!  I  will  see  my  wife.  I  will 
clear  myself  of  the  horrible  suspicion  she  has 
about  me!  You  have  shown  me  your  letter. 
Look  at  mine!" 

Sir  Patrick's  clear  sense  saw  the  wild  words 
that  Blanche  had  written  in  their  true  light. 

"Do  you  hold  your  wife  responsible  for  that 
letter?"  he  asked.  "I  see  her  stepmother  in 
every  line  of  it.  You  descend  to  something  un- 
worthy of  you,  if  you  seriously  defend  yourself 
against  this  I  You  can't  see  it?  You  persist  in 
holding  to  your  own  view?  Write,  then.  You 
can't  get  to  her — your  letter  may.  No !  When 
you  leave  this  house,  you  leave  it  with  me.  I 
have  conceded  something,  on  my  side,  in  allow- 
ing you  to  write.  I  insist  on  your  conceding 
something,  on  your  side,  in  return.  Come  into 
the  library!  I  answer  for  setting  things  right 
between  you  and  Blanche,  if  you  will  place  your 
interests  in  iny  hands.  Do  you  trust  me  or  not?" 

Arnold  yielded.  They  went  into  the  library 
together.     Sir  Patrick  pointed  to  the  writing- 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  99 

table.  "Relieve  your  mind  there,"  he  said; 
"and  let  me  find  you  a  reasonable  man  again 
when  I  come  back." 

When  he  returned  to  the  library  the  letter  was 
written ;  and  Arnold's  mind  was  so  far  relieved 
— for  the  time  at  least. 

"I  shall  take  your  letter  to  Blanche  myself," 
said  Sir  Patrick,  "by  the  train  that  leaves  for 
London  in  half  an  hour's  time. ' ' 

"You  will  let  me  go  with  you?" 

"Not  to-day.  I  shall  be  back  this  evening  to 
dinner.  You  shall  hear  all  that  has  happened ; 
and  you  shall  accompany  me  to  London  to-mor- 
row— if  I  find  it  necessary  to  make  any  length- 
ened stay  there.  Between  this  and  then,  after 
the  shock  that  you  have  suffered,  you  will  do 
well  to  be  quiet  here.  Be  satisfied  with  my  as- 
surance that  Blanche  shall  have  your  letter.  I 
will  force  my  authority  on  her  stepmother  to 
that  extent  (if  her  stepmother  resists)  without 
scruple.  The  respect  in  which  I  hold  the  sex 
only  lasts  as  long  as  the  sex  deserves  it — and 
does  not  extend  to  Lady  Lundie.  There  is  no 
advantage  that  a  man  can  take  of  a  woman 
which  I  am  not  fully  prepared  to  take  of  my 
sister-in-law." 

With  that  characteristic  farewell,  he  shook 
hands  with  Arnold,  and  departed  for  the  station. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  dinner  was  on  the  table. 
At  seven  o'clock  Sir  Patrick  came  downstairs  to 
eat  it,  as  perfectly  dressed  as  usual,  and  as  com- 
posed as  if  nothing  had  happened. 


100  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"She  has  got  your  letter,"  he  whispered,  as 
he  took  Arnold 's  arm,  and  led  him  into  the  din- 
ing-room. 

"Did  she  say  anything?" 

"Not  a  word." 

"How  did  she  look?" 

"As  she  ought  to  look — sorry  for  what  she  has 
done. ' ' 

The  dinner  began.  As  a  matter  of  necessity, 
the  subject  of  Sir  Patrick's  expedition  was 
dropped  while  the  servants  were  in  the  room — 
to  be  regularly  taken  up  again  by  Arnold  in  the 
intervals  between  the  courses.  He  began  when 
the  soup  was  taken  away. 

"I  confess  I  had  hoped  to  see  Blanche  come 
back  with  you!"  he  said,  sadly  enough. 

"In  other  words,"  returned  Sir  Patrick,  "you 
forgot  the  native  obstinacy  of  the  sex.  Blanche 
is  beginning  to  feel  that  she  has  been  wrong. 
What  is  the  necessary  consequence?  She  nat- 
urally persists  in  being  wrong.  Let  her  alone, 
and  leave  your  letter  to  have  its  effect.  The  seri- 
ous difficulties  in  our  way  don't  rest  with  Blanche. 
Content  yourself  with  knowing  that. ' ' 

The  fish  came  in,  and  Arnold  was  silenced — 
until  his  next  opportunity  came  with  the  next 
interval  in  the  course  of  the  dinner. 

"What  are  the  difficulties?"  he  asked. 

' '  The  difficulties  are  my  difficulties  and  yours, ' ' 
answered  Sir  Patrick.  "My  difficulty  is,  that  I 
can't  assert  my  authority  as  guardian  if  I  as- 
sume my  niece  (as  I  do)  to  be  a  married  woman. 
Your  difficulty  is,  that  you    can't  assert  your 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  101 

authority  as  her  husband,  until  it  is  distinctly 
proved  that  you  and  Miss  Silvester  are  not  man 
and  wife.  Lady  Lundie  was  perfectly  aware 
that  she  would  place  us  in  that  position  when 
she  removed  Blanche  from  this  house.  She  has 
cross-examined  Mrs.  Inchbare;  she  has  written 
to  your  steward  for  the  date  of  your  arrival  at 
your  estate ;  she  has  done  everything,  calculated 
everything,  and  foreseen  everything — except  my 
excellent  temper.  The  one  mistake  she  has  made, 
is  in  thinking  she  could  get  the  better  of  that. 
No,  my  dear  boy !  My  trump  card  is  my  tem- 
per. I  keep  it  in  my  hand,  Arnold — I  keep  it  in 
my  hand!" 

The  next  course  came  in — and  there  was  an 
end  of  the  subject  again.  Sir  Patrick  enjoyed 
his  mutton,  and  entered  on  a  long  and  interest- 
ing narrative  of  the  history  of  some  rare  white 
Burgundy  on  the  table  imported  by  himself. 
Arnold  resolutely  resumed  the  discussion  with 
the  departure  of  the  mutton. 

"It  seems  to  be  a  dead-lock,"  he  said. 

"No  slang!"  retorted  Sir  Patrick. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  sir,  consider  my  anxiety, 
and  tell  me  what  you  propose  to  do!" 

"I  propose  to  take  you  to  London  with  me  to- 
morrow, on  this  condition — that  you  promise 
me,  on  your  word  of  honor,  not  to  attempt  to 
see  your  wife  before  Saturday  next." 

"I  shall  see  her  then?" 

"If  you  give  me  your  promise." 

"I  do!     I  do!" 

The  next  course  came  in.     Sir  Patrick  entered 


103  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

on  the  question  of  the  merits  of  the  partridge, 
viewed  as  an  eatable  bird.  "By  himself,  Arnold 
— plainly  roasted,  and  tested  on  his  own  merits 
— an  overrated  bird.  Being  too  fond  of  shoot- 
ing him  in  this  countrj^,  we  become  too  fond  of 
eating  him  next.  Properly  understood,  he  is 
a  vehicle  for  sauce  and  truffles — nothing  more. 
Or  no — that  is  hardly  doing  him  justice.  I  am 
bound  to  add  that  he  is  honorably  associated 
with  the  famous  French  receipt  for  cooking  an 
olive.     Do  you  know  it?" 

There  was  an  end  of  the  bird ;  there  was  an 
end  of  the  jelly.  Arnold  got  his  next  chance — 
and  took  it. 

"What  is  to  be  done  in  London  to-morrow?" 
he  asked. 

"To-morrow,"  answered  Sir  Patrick,  "is  a 
memorable  day  in  our  calendar.  To-morrow  is 
Tuesday — the  day  on  which  I  am  to  see  Miss 
Silvester, ' ' 

Arnold  set  down  the  glass  of  wine  which  he 
was  just  raising  to  his  lips. 

"After  what  has  happened,"  he  said,  "lean 
hardly  bear  to  hear  her  name  mentioned.  Miss 
Silvester  has  parted  me  from  my  wife. ' ' 

"Miss  Silvester  may  atone  for  that,  Arnold, 
by  uniting  you  again. ' ' 

"She  has  been  the  ruin  of  me  so  far." 

"She  may  be  the  salvation  of  you  yet." 

The  cheese  came  in ;  and  Sir  Patrick  returned 
to  the  Art  of  Cookery. 

' '  Do  you  know  the  receipt  for  cooking  an  olive, 
Arnold?" 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  10:} 

"No." 

"What  does  the  new  generation  know?  It 
knows  how  to  row,  how  to  shoot,  how  to  play  at 
cricket,  and  how  to  bet.  When  it  has  lost  its 
muscle  and  lost  its  monej^ — that  is  to  say,  when 
it  has  grown  old — what  a  genei^ation  it  will  be ! 
It  doesn't  matter:  I  shan't  live  to  see  it.  Are 
you  listening,  Arnold?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

' '  How  to  cook  an  olive :  Put  an  olive  into  a 
lark ;  put  a  lark  into  a  quail ;  put  a  quail  into  a 
plover ;  put  a  plover  into  a  partridge ;  put  a  par- 
tridge into  a  pheasant;  put  a  pheasant  into  a 
turkey.  Good.  First,  partially  roast ;  then  care- 
fully stew — until  all  is  thoroughly  done  down  to 
the  olive.  Good  again.  Next,  open  the  window. 
Throw  out  the  turkey,  the  pheasant,  the  par- 
tridge, the  plover,  the  quail,  and  the  lark.  Then, 
eat  the  olive.  The  dish  is  expensive,  but  (we 
have  it  on  the  highest  authority)  well  worth  the 
sacrifice.  The  quintessence  of  the  flavor  of  six 
birds,  concentrated  in  one  olive.  Grand  idea! 
Try  another  glass  of  the  white  Burgundy,  Ar- 
nold." 

At  last  the  servants  left  them,  with  the  wine 
and  dessert  on  the  table. 

"I  have  borne  it  as  long  as  I  can,  sir,"  said 
Arnold.  "Add  to  all  your  kindness  to  me  by 
telling  me  at  once  what  happened  at  Lady  Lun- 
die's." 

It  was  a  chilly  evening.  A  bright  wood  fire 
was  burning  in  the  room.  Sir  Patrick  drew  his 
chair  to  the  fire. 


104  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"This  is  exactl}'-  what  happened,"  he  said.  "I 
found  company  at  Lady  Lundie's,  to  begin  with. 
Two  perfect  strangers  to  me.  Captain  Newen- 
den,  and  his  niece,  Mrs.  Glenarm.  Lady  Lundie 
offered  to  see  me  in  another  room ;  the  two  stran- 
gers offered  to  withdraw,  I  declined  both  pro- 
posals. First  check  to  her  ladyship !  She  has 
reckoned  throughout,  Arnold,  on  our  being  afraid 
to  face  public  opinion.  I  showed  her  at  starting 
that  we  were  as  ready  to  face  it  as  she  was.  'I 
always  accept  what  the  French  call  accomplished 
facts,'  I  said.  'You  have  brought  matters  to  a 
crisis,  Lady  Lundie.  So  let  it  be.  I  have  a 
word  to  say  to  my  niece  (in  your  presence,  if  you 
like) ;  and  I  have  another  word  to  say  to  you 
afterward — without  presuming  to  disturb  your 
guests.*  The  guests  sat  down  again  (both  nat- 
urally devoured  by  curiosity).  Could  her  lady- 
ship decently  refuse  me  an  interview  with  my 
own  niece,  while  two  witnesses  were  looking 
on?  Impossible.  I  saw  Blanche  (Lady  Lundie 
being  present,  it  is  needless  to  say)  in  the  back 
drawing-room.  I  gave  her  your  letter ;  I  said  a 
good  word  for  you ;  I  saw  that  she  was  sorry, 
though  she  wouldn't  own  it — and  that  was 
enough.  We  went  back  into  the  front  drawing- 
room.  I  had  not  spoken  five  words  on  our  side 
(jf  th«  question  before  it  appeared,  to  my  aston- 
ishment and  delight,  that  Captain  Newenden 
was  in  the  house  on  the  very  question  that  had 
brought  me  into  the  house — the  question  of  you 
and  Miss  Silvester.  My  business,  in  the  inter- 
ests of  my  niece,  was  to  deny  your  marriage  to 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  105 

the  lady.  His  business,  in  the  interests  of  his 
niece,  was  to  assert  your  marriage  to  the  lady. 
To  the  unutterable  disgust  of  the  two  women, 
we  joined  issue,  in  the  most  friendly  manner,  on 
the  spot.  'Charmed  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  you,  Captain  Newenden.' — 'Delighted 
to  have  the  honor  of  making  your  acquaintance, 
Sir  Patrick.' — 'I  think  we  can  settle  this  in  two 
minutes?' — 'My  own  idea  perfectly  expressed.'  — 
'State  your  position.  Captain.' — 'With  the  great- 
est pleasure.  Here  is  my  niece,  Mrs.  Glenarm, 
engaged  to  marry  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn.  All 
very  well,  but  there  happens  to  be  an  obstacle — 
in  the  shape  of  a  lady.  Do  I  put  it  plainly?' — 
'You  put  it  admirably.  Captain;  but  for  the  loss 
to  the  British  navy,  you  ought  to  have  been  a 
lawyer.  Pray,  go  on.' — 'You  are  too  good,  Sir 
Patrick.  I  resume.  Mr.  Delamayn  asserts  that 
this  person  in  the  background  has  no  claim  on 
him,  and  backs  his  assertion  by  declaring  that 
she  is  married  already  to  Mr.  Arnold  Brink- 
worth.  Lady  Lundie  and  m.j  niece  assure  me, 
on  evidence  which  satisfies  them,  that  the  asser- 
tion is  true.  The  evidence  does  not  satisfy  me. 
I  hope.  Sir  Patrick,  I  don't  strike  you  as  being 
an  excessively  obstinate  man?' — 'My  dear  sir, 
you  impress  me  with  the  highest  opinion  of  your 
capacity  for  sifting  human  testimony!  May  I 
ask,  next,  what  course  you  mean  to  take?' — 'The 
very  thing  I  was  going  to  mention,  Sir  Patrick ! 
This  is  my  course :  I  refuse  to  sanction  my  niece's 
engagement  to  Mr.  Delamayn,  until  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn has  actually  proved  his  statement  by  ap- 


106  .  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

peal  to  witnesses  of  the  lady's  marriage.  He 
refers  me  to  two  witnesses ;  but  declines  acting 
at  once  in  the  matter  for  himseK,  on  the  ground 
that  he  is  in  training  for  a  foot-race.  I  admit 
that  that  is  an  obstacle,  and  consent  to  arrange 
for  bringing  the  two  witnesses  to  London  myself. 
By  this  post  I  have  wittten  to  my  lawyers  in 
Perth  to  look  the  witnesses  up ;  to  offer  them  the 
necessary  terms  (at  Mr.  Delamayn's  expense)  for 
the  use  of  their  time ;  and  to  produce  them  by 
the  end  of  the  week.  The  foot-race  is  on  Thurs- 
day next.  Mr.  Delamayn  will  be  able  to  attend 
after  that,  and  establish  his  own  assertion  by  his 
own  witnesses.  What  do  you  say.  Sir  Patrick, 
to  Saturday  next  (with  Lady  Lundie's  permis- 
sion) in  this  room?'  There  is  the  substance  of 
the  captain's  statement.  He  is  as  old  as  I  am, 
and  is  dressed  to  look  like  thirty ;  but  a  very 
pleasant  fellow  for  all  that.  I  struck  my  sister- 
in-law  dumb  by  accepting  the  proposal  without 
a  moment's  hesitation.  Mrs,  Glenarm  and  Lady 
Lundie  looked  at  each  other  in  mute  amazement. 
Here  was  a  difference  about  which  two  women 
would  have  mortally  quarreled ;  and  here  were 
two  men  settling  it  in  the  friendliest  possible 
manner.  I  wish  you  had  seen  Lady  Lundie's 
face  when  I  declared  myself  deeply  indebted  to 
Captain  Newenden  for  rendering  any  prolonged 
interview  with  her  ladyship  quite  unnecessary. 
'Thanks  to  the  captain,'  I  said  to  her,  in  the 
most  cordial  manner,  'we  have  absolutely  nothing 
to  discuss.  I  shall  catch  the  next  train,  and  set 
Arnold  Brinkworth's  inind  quite  at  ease. '     To 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  107 

come  back  to  serious  things,  I  have  engaged  to 
produce  you,  in  the  presence  of  everybody — your 
wife  included — on  Saturday  next.  I  put  a  bold 
face  on  it  before  the  others.  But  I  am  bound  to 
tell  you  that  it  is  by  no  means  easy  to  say— sit- 
uated as  we  are  now — what  the  result  of  Satur- 
day's inquiry  will  be.  Everything  depends  on 
the  issue  of  my  interview  with  Miss  Silvester  to- 
morrow. It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say,  Arnold, 
the,  L  /our  fate  is  in  her  hands. ' ' 

"I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  never  set  eyes  on 
her!"  said  Arnold. 

"Lay  the  saddle  on  the  right  horse,"  returned 
Sir  Patrick.  "Wish  you  had  never  set  eyes  on 
Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

Arnold  hung  his  head.  Sir  Patrick's  sharp 
tongue  had  got  the  better  of  him  once  more. 


TWELFTH  SCENE.— DRURY  LANE. 


CHAPTER  THE   FORTY-FOURTH. 

THE    LETTER   AND    THE    LAW. 

The  many-toned  murmur  of  the  current  of 
London  life— flowing  through  the  murky  chan- 
nel of  Drury  Lane — found  its  muffled  way  from 
the  front  room  to  the  back.  Piles  of  old  music 
lumbered   the   dusty   floor.      Stage  masks  and 


108  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

weapons,  and  portraits  of  singers  and  dancers, 
hung  round  the  walls.  An  empty  violin-case  in 
one  corner  faced  a  broken  bust  of  Rossini  in  an- 
other. A  frameless  print,  representing  the  Trial 
of  Queen  Caroline,  was  pasted  over  the  fireplace. 
The  chairs  were  genuine  specimens  of  ancient 
carving  in  oak.  The  table  was  an  equally  ex- 
cellent example  of  dirty  modern  deal.  A  small 
morsel  of  drugget  was  on  the  floor ;  and  a  large 
deposit  of  soot  was  on  the  ceiling.  The  ,  ne 
thus  presented,  revealed  itself  in  the  back  draw- 
ing-room of  a  house  in  Drury  Lane,  devoted  to 
the  transaction  of  musical  and  theatrical  busi- 
ness of  the  humbler  sort.  It  was  late  in  the  after- 
noon, on  Michaelmas-day.  Two  persons  were 
seated  together  in  the  room :  they  were  Anne 
Silvester  and  Sir  Patrick  Lundie. 

The  opening  conversation  between  them — com- 
prising, on  one  side,  the  narrative  of  what  had 
happened  at  Perth  and  at  Swanhaven;  and,  on 
the  other,  a  statement  of  the  circumstances  at- 
tending the  separation  of  Arnold  and  Blanche — 
had  come  to  an  end.  It  rested  with  Sir  Patrick 
to  lead  the  way  to  the  next  topic.  He  looked  at 
his  companion,  and  hesitated. 

"Do  you  feel  strong  enough  to  go  on?"  he 
asked.  "If  you  would  prefer  to  rest  a  little, 
pray  say  so. ' ' 

"Thank  you.  Sir  Patrick.  I  am  more  than 
ready,  I  am  eager,  to  go  on.  No  words  can  say 
how  anxious  I  feel  to  be  of  some  use  to  you,  if  I 
can.  It  rests  entirely  with  your  experience  to 
show  me  how." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  109 

"I  can  only  do  that,  Miss  Silvester,  by  asking 
you  without  ceremony  for  all  the  information 
that  I  want.  Had  you  any  object  in  traveling 
to  London,  which  you  have  not  mentioned  to 
me  yet?  I  mean,  of  course,  any  object  with 
which  I  have  a  claim  (as  Arnold  Brinkworth's 
representative)  to  be  acquainted?" 

"I  had  an  object.  Sir  Patrick.  And  I  have 
failed  to  accomplish  it." 

"May  I  ask  what  it  was?" 

"It  was  to  see  Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

Sir  Patrick  started.  "You  have  attempted  to 
see  ^^m .'     When?" 

"This  morning." 

"Why,  you  only  arrived  in  London  last  night !" 

"I  only  arrived,"  said  Anne,  "after  waiting 
many  days  on  the  journey.  I  was  obliged  to 
rest  at  Edinburgh,  and  again  at  York — and  I 
was  afraid  I  had  given  Mrs.  Glenarm  time 
enough  to  get  Geoffrey  Delamayn  before  me." 

"Afraid?"  repeated  Sir  Patrick.  "I  under- 
stood that  you  had  no  serious  intention  of  dis- 
puting the  scoundrel  with  Mrs.  Glenarm.  What 
motive  could  possibly  have  taken  you  his  way?" 

"The  same  motive  which  took  me  to  Swan- 
haven." 

"What!  the  idea  that  it  rested  with  Delamayn 
to  set  things  right?  and  that  you  might  bribe 
him  to  do  it,  by  consenting  to  release  him,  so 
far  as  your  claims  were  concerned?" 

"Bear  with  my  folly,  Sir  Patrick,  as  patiently 
as  you  can !  I  am  always  alone  now ;  and  I  get 
into  a  habit  of  brooding  over  things.     I  have 


110  WORKS   OF   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

been  brooding  over  the  position  in  which  my 
misfortunes  have  placed  Mr.  Brinkworth.  I 
have  been  obstinate — unreasonabl}^  obstinate — 
in  believing  that  I  could  prevail  with  Geoffrey 
Delamayn,  after  I  had  failed  with  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm.  I  am  obstinate  about  it  still.  If  he  would 
only  have  heard  me,  my  madness  in  going  to 
Fulham  might  have  had  its  excuse."  She 
sighed  bitterly,  and  said  no  more. 

Sir  Patrick  took  her  hand. 

"It  has  its  excuse,"  he  said,  kindly.  "Your 
motive  is  beyond  reproach.  Let  me  add — to 
quiet  your  mind — that,  even  if  Delamayn  had 
been  willing  to  hear  you,  and  had  accepted  the 
condition,  the  result  would  still  have  been  the 
same.  You  are  quite  wrong  in  supposing  that 
he  has  only  to  speak,  and  to  set  this  matter 
right.  It  has  passed  entirely  beyond  his  control. 
The  mischief  was  done  when  Arnold  Brinkworth 
spent  those  unlucky  hours  with  you  at  Craig 
Fernie." 

"Oh,  Sir  Patrick,  if  I  had  only  known  that, 
before  I  went  to  Fulham  this  morning!" 

She  shuddered  as  she  said  the  words.  Some- 
thing was  plainly  associated  with  her  visit  to 
Geoffrey,  the  bare  remembrance  of  which  shook 
her  nerves.  "What  was  it?  Sir  Patrick  resolved  to 
obtain  an  answer  to  that  question  before  he  ven- 
tured on  proceeding  further  with  the  main  object 
of  the  interview. 

"You  have  told  me  your  reason  for  going  to 
Fulham,"  he  said.  "But  I  have  not  heard  what 
happened  there  yet." 


MAN    AND    WIFE,  HI 

Anne  hesitated.  "Is  it  necessary  for  me  to 
trouble  you  about  that?"  she  asked,  with  evident 
reluctance  to  enter  on  the  subject. 

"  It  is  absolutely  necessary, ' '  answered  Sir  Pat- 
rick, "because  Delamayn  is  concerned  in  it." 

Anne  summoned  her  resolution,  and  entered 
on  her  narrative  in  these  words : 

"The  person  who  carries  on  the  business  here 
discovered  the  address  for  me,"  she  began.  "I 
had  some  difficulty,  however,  in  finding  the 
house.  It  is  little  more  than  a  cottage ;  and  it 
is  quite  lost  in  a  great  garden,  siirrounded  by 
high  walls.  I  saw  a  carriage  waiting.  The 
coachman  was  walking  his  horses  up  and  down 
— and  he  showed  me  the  door.  It  was  a  high 
wooden  door  in  the  wall,  with  a  grating  in  it.  I 
rang  the  bell.  A  servant-girl  opened  the  grating 
and  looked  at  me.  She  refused  to  let  me  in. 
Her  mistress  had  ordered  her  to  close  the  door 
on  all  strangers — especially  strangers  who  were 
women.  I  contrived  to  pass  some  money  to  her 
through  the  grating,  and  asked  to  speak  to  her 
mistress.  -  After  waiting  some  time  I  saw  an- 
other face  behind  the  bars — and  it  struck  me 
that  I  recognized  it.  I  suppose  I  was  nervous. 
It  startled  me.  I  said,  'I  think  we  know  each 
other.'  There  was  no  answer.  The  door  was 
suddenly  opened — and  who  do  j^ou  think  stood 
before  me?" 

"Was  it  somebody  I  know?" 

"Yes." 

"Man?  or  woman?" 


113  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"It  was  Hester  Dethridge." 

"Hester  Dethridge!" 

"Yes.  Dressed  just  as  usual,  and  looking  just 
as  usual- — with  her  slate  hanging  at  her  side." 

"Astonishing!  Where  did  I  last  see  her?  At 
the  Wind5^gates  station,  to  be  sure — going  to 
London,  after  she  had  left  my  sister-in-law's 
service.  Has  she  accepted  another  place — with- 
out letting  me  know  first,  as  I  told  her?" 

"She  is  living  at  Fulham." 

"In  service?" 

"No.     As  mistress  of  her  own  house." 

"What!  Hester  Dethridge  in  possession  of  a 
house  of  her  own?  Well!  well!  why  shouldn't 
she  have  a  rise  in  the  world  like  other  people? 
Did  she  let  you  in?" 

"She  stood  for  some  time  looking  at  me,  in 
that  dull  strange  way  that  she  has.  The  serv- 
ants at  Windygates  always  said  she  was  not  in 
her  right  mind — and  you  will  say,  Sir  Patrick, 
when  you  hear  what  happened,  that  the  servants 
were  not  mistaken.  She  must  be  mad.  I  said, 
'Don't  you  remember  me?'  She  lifted  her  slate, 
and  wrote,  'I  remember  you,  in  a  dead  swoon  at 
Windygates  House. '  I  was  quite  unaware  that 
she  had  been  present  when  I  fainted  in  the 
library.  The  discovery  startled  me — or  that 
dreadful,  dead-cold  look  that  she  has  in  her  eyes 
startled  me — I  don't  know  which.  I  couldn't 
-speak  to  her  just  at  first.  She  wrote  on  her  slate 
again — the  strangest  question — in  these  words: 
'I  said,  at  the  time,  brought  to  it  by  a  man. 
Did  I  say  true?'     If  the  (juestion  had  been  put 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  113 

in  the  usual  way,  by  anybody  else,  I  should  have 
considered  it  too  insolent  to  be  noticed.  Can  you' 
understand  my  answering  it,  Sir  Patrick?  I 
can't  understand  it  myself  now — and  yet  I  did 
answer.  She  forced  me  to  it  with  her  stony 
eyes.     I  said  'Yes.'  " 

"Did  all  this  take  place  at  the  door?" 

"At  the  door." 

"When  did  she  let  you  in?" 

"The  next  thing  she  did  was  to  let  me  in.  She 
took  me  by  the  arm,  in  a  rough  way,  and  drew 
me  inside  the  door,  and  shut  it.  My  nerves 
are  broken ;  my  courage  is  gone.  I  crept  with 
cold  when  she  touched  me.  She  dropped  my 
arm.  I  stood  like  a  child,  waiting  for  what  it 
pleased  her  to  say  or  do  next.  She  rested  her 
two  hands  on  her  sides,  and  took  a  long  look  at 
me.  She  made  a  horrid  dumb  sound — not  as  if 
she  was  angry ;  more,  if  such  a  thing  could  be, 
as  if  she  was  satisfied — pleased  even,  I  should 
have  said,  if  it  had  been  anybody  but  Hester 
Dethridge.     Do  you  understand  it?" 

"Not  yet.  Let  me  get  nearer  to  understand- 
ing it  by  asking  something  before  you  go  on. 
Did  she  show  any  attachment  to  you,  when  j^ou 
were  both  at  Windygates?" 

"Not  the  least.  She  appeared  to  be  incapable 
of  attachment  to  me,  or  to  anybody. ' ' 

"Did  she  write  any  more  questions  on  her 
slate?" 

"Yes.  She  wrote  another  question  under  what 
she  had  written  just  before.  Her  mind  was  still 
running  on  my  fainting-fit,  and  on  the  'man' 


114  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

who  had  'brought  me  to  it.'  She  held  up  the 
slate;  and  the  words  were  these:  'Tell  me  how 
he  served  you;  did  he  knock  you  down?'  Most 
people  would  have  laughed  at  the  question.  / 
was  startled  by  it.  I  told  her,  No.  She  shook 
her  head  as  if  she  didn't  believe  me.  She  wrote 
on  her  slate,  '  We  are  loth  to  own  it  when  they 
up  with  their  fists  and  beat  us — ain't  we?'  I 
said,  'You  are  quite  wrong.'  She  went  on  obsti- 
nately with  her  writing.  'Who  is  the  man?' 
was  her  next  question.  I  had  control  enough 
over  myself  to  decline  telling  her  that.  She 
opened  the  door,  and  pointed  to  me  to  go  out.  I 
made  a  sign  entreating  her  to  wait  a  little.  She 
went  back,  in  her  impenetrable  way,  to  the  writ- 
ing on  the  slate — still  about  the  'man.'  This 
time  the  question  was  plainer  still.  She  had 
evidently  placed  her  own  interpretation  of  my 
appearance  at  the  house.  She  wrote,  'Is  it  the 
man  who  lodges  here?'  I  saw  that  she  v/ould 
close  the  door  on  me  if  I  didn't  answer.  My 
only  chance  with  her  was  to  own  that  she  had 
guessed  right.  I  said  'Yes.  I  want  to  see  him.' 
She  took  me  by  the  arm  as  roughly  as  before  and 
led  me  into  the  house. " 

"I  begin  to  understand  her,"  said  Sir  Patrick. 
"I  remember  hearing,  in  my  brother's  time,  that 
she  had  been  brutally  ill-used  by  her  husband. 
The  association  of  ideas,  even  in  her  confused 
brain,  becoines  plain,  if  you  bear  that  in  mind. 
What  is  her  last  remembrance  of  you?  It  is 
the  remembrance  of  a  fainting  woman  at  Windy- 
gates.  ' ' 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  115 

"Yes." 

"She  makes  you  acknowledge  that  she  has 
guessed  right,  in  guessing  that  a  man  was,  in 
some  way,  answerable  for  the  condition  in  which 
she  found  you.  A  swoon  produced  by  a  shock 
inflicted  on  the  mind,  is  a  swoon  that  she  doesn't 
understand.  She  looks  back  into  her  own  expe- 
rience, and  associates  it  with  the  exercise  of  act- 
ual physical  brutality  on  the  part  of  the  man. 
And  she  sees,  in  you,  a  reflection  of  her  own 
sufferings  and  her  own  case.  It's  curious — to  a 
student  of  human  nature.  And  it  explains,  what 
is  otherwise  unintelligible,  her  overlooking  her 
own  instructions  to  the  servant,  and  letting 
you  into  the  house.     "What  happened  next':"' 

"She  took  me  into  a  room,  which  I  suppose 
was  her  own  room.  She  made  signs,  offering 
me  tea.  It  was  done  in  the  strangest  way — 
without  the  least  appearance  of  kindness.  After 
what  you  have  just  said  to  me,  I  think  I  can  in 
some  degree  interpret  what  was  going  on  in  her 
mind.  I  believe  she  felt  a  hard-hearted  interest 
in  seeing  a  woman  whom  she  supposed  to  be  as 
unfortunate  as  she  had  once  been  herself.  I  de- 
clined taking  any  tea,  and  tried  to  return  to  the 
subject  of  what  I  wanted  in  the  house.  She  paid 
no  heed  to  me.  She  pointed  round  the  room ; 
and  then  took  me  to  a  window,  and  pointed 
round  the  garden — and  then  made  a  sign  indicat- 
ing herself.  'My  house;  and  my  garden' — that 
was  what  she  meant.  There  were  four  men  in 
the  garden — and  Geoffrey  Delamayn  was  one  of 
them.     I  made  another  attempt  to  tell  her  that 


116  WORKS    OB^    WILKIE   COLLINS. 

I  wanted  to  speak  to  him.  But,  no !  She  had 
her  own  idea  in  her  mind.  After  beckoning  me 
to  leave  the  window,  she  led  the  way  to  the  fire- 
place, and  showed  me  a  sheet  of  paper  with 
writing  on  it,  framed  and  placed  under  a  glass, 
and  hung  on  the  wall.  She  seemed,  I  thought, 
to  feel  some  kind  of  pride  in  her  framed  manu- 
script. At  any  rate,  she  insisted  on  my  reading 
it.     It  was  an  extract  from  a  will." 

"The  will  under  which  she  had  inherited  the 
house?" 

"Yes.  Her  brother's  will.  It  said  that  he  re- 
gretted, on  his  death-bed,  his  estrangement  from 
his  only  sister,  dating  from  the  time  when  she 
had  married  in  defiance  of  his  wishes  and  against 
his  advice.  As  a  proof  of  his  sincere  desire  to 
be  reconciled  with  her  before  he  died,  and  as 
some  compensation  for  the  sufferings  that  she 
had  endured  at  the  hands  of  her  deceased  hus- 
band, he  left  her  an  income  of  two  ^.hundred 
pounds  a  year,  together  with  the  use  of  his  house 
and  garden,  for  her  lifetime.  That,  as  well  as 
I  remember,  was  the  substance  of  what  it  said. ' ' 

"Creditable  to  her  brother  and  creditable  to 
herself,"  said  Sir  Patrick.  "Taking  her  odd 
character  into  consideration,  I  understand  her 
liking  it  to  be  seen.  What  puzzles  me  is  her  let- 
ting lodgings  with  an  income  of  her  own  to  live 
on." 

"That  was  the  very  question  which  I  put  to 
her  myself.  I  was  obliged  to  be  cautious,  and 
to  begin  by  asking  about  tlie  lodgers  first — the 
men  being  still  visible  out  in  the  garden,  to  ex- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  117 

cuse  the  inquiry.  The  rooms  to  let  in  the  house 
had  (as  I  understood  her)  been  taken  by  a  per- 
son acting  for  Geoffrey  Delamayn — his  trainer, 
I  presume.  He  had  surprised  Hester  Dethridge 
by  barely  noticing  the  house,  and  showing  the 
most  extraordinary  interest  in  the  garden. ' ' 

"That  is  quite  intelligible.  Miss  Silvester,  The 
garden  you  have  described  would  be  just  the 
place  he  wanted  for  the  exercises  of  his  employer 
— plenty  of  space,  and  well  secured  from  obser- 
vation by  the  high  walls  all  round.   What  next?" 

"Next,  I  got  to  the  question  of  why  she  should 
let  her  house  in  lodgings  at  all.  When  I  asked 
her  that,  her  face  turned  harder  than  ever.  She 
answered  me  on  her  slate  in  these  dismal  words : 
'I  have  not  got  a  friend  in  the  world.  I  dare 
not  live  alone. '  There  was  her  reason !  Dreary 
and  dreadful,  Sir  Patrick,  was  it  not?" 

"Dreary  indeed!  How  did  it  end?  Did  you 
get  into  the  garden?" 

"Yes — at  the  second  attempt.  She  seemed 
suddenly  to  change  her  mind ;  she  opened  the 
door  for  me  herself.  Passing  the  window  of  the 
room  in  which  I  had  left  her,  I  looked  back.  She 
had  taken  her  place  at  a  table  before  the  win- 
dow, apparently  watching  for  what  might  hap- 
pen. There  was  something  about  her,  as  her 
eyes  met  mine  (I  can't  say  what),  which  made 
me  feel  uneasy  at  the  time.  Adopting  your  view, 
I  am  almost  inclined  to  think  now,  horrid  as  the 
idea  is,  that  she  had  the  expectation  of  seeing 
me  treated  as  she  had  been  treated  in  former 
days.     It  was  actually  a  relief  to  me — though  I 


118  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

knew  I  was  going  to  run  a  serious  risk — to  lose 
sight  of  her.  As  I  got  nearer  to  the  men  in  the 
garden,  I  heard  two  of  them  talking  very  ear- 
nestly to  Geoffrey  Delamayn.  The  fourth  person, 
an  elderly  gentleman,  stood  apart  from  the  rest 
at  some  little  distance.  I  kept  as  far  as  I  could 
out  of  sight,  waiting  till  the  talk  was  over.  It 
was  impossible  for  me  to  help  hearing  it.  The 
two  men  were  trying  to  persuade  Geoffrey  Del- 
amayn to  speak  to  the  elderly  gentleman.  They 
pointed  to  him  as  a  famous  medical  man.  They 
reiterated  over  and  over  again  that  his  opinion 
was  well  worth  having — " 

Sir  Patrick  interrupted  her.  "Did  they  men- 
tion his  name?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.     They  call  him  Mr.  Speedwell." 

"The  man  himself!  This  is  even  more  inter- 
esting, Miss  Silvester,  than  you  suppose.  I  my- 
self heard  Mr.  Speedwell  warn  Delamayn  that 
he  was  in  broken  health,  when  we  were  visiting 
together  at  Windygates  House  last  month.  Did 
he  do  as  the  other  men  wished  him?  Did  he 
speak  to  the  surgeon?" 

"No.  He  sulkily  refused — he  remembered 
what  you  remember.  He  said,  '  See  the  man  who 
told  me  I  was  broken  down? — not  I!'  After 
confirming  it  with  an  oath,  he  turned  away  from 
the  others.  Unfortunately,  he  took  the  direction 
in  which  I  was  standing,  and  discovered  me. 
The  bare  sight  of  me  seemed  to  throw  him  in- 
stantly into  a  state  of  frenzy.  He — it  is  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  repeat  the  language  that  he  used : 
it  is  bad  enough  to  have  heard  it.     I  believe. 


MAN   AND    WIPE.  119 

Sir  Patrick,  but  for  the  two  men,  who  ran  up 
and  laid  hold  of  him,  that  Hester  Dethridge 
would  have  seen  what  she  expected  to  see.  The 
change  in  him  was  so  frightful — even  to  me, 
well  as  I  thought  I  knew  him  in  his  fits  of  pas- 
sion— I  tremble  when  I  think  of  it.  One  of  the 
men  who  had  restrained  him  was  ahnost  as  bru- 
tal in  his  way.  He  declared,  in  the  foulest  lan- 
guage, that  if  Delamayn  had  a  fit  he  would  lose 
the  race,  and  that  I  should  be  answerable  for  it. 
But  for  Mr.  Speedwell,  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  have  done.  He  came  forward  directly. 
'This  is  no  place  either  for  you  or  for  me,'  he 
said — and  gave  me  his  arm,  and  led  me  back  to 
the  house.  Hester  Dethridge  met  us  in  the  pas- 
sage, and  lifted  her  hand  to  stop  me.  Mr.  Speed- 
well asked  her  what  she  wanted.  She  looked  at 
me,  and  then  looked  toward  the  garden,  and 
made  the  motion  of  striking  a  blow  with  her 
clinched  fist.  For  the  first  time  in  my  experi- 
ence of  her— I  hope  it  was  my  fancy — I  thought 
I  saw  her  smile.  Mr.  Speedwell  took  me  out. 
'They  are  well  matched  in  that  house,'  he  said. 
'The  woman  is  as  complete  .a  savage  as  the 
men.'  The  carriage  which  I  had  seen  waiting 
at  the  door  was  his.  He  called  it  up,  and  po- 
litely offered  me  a  place  in  it.  I  said  I  would 
only  trespass  on  his  kindness  as  far  as  to  the 
railway  station.  While  we  were  talking,  Hester 
Dethridge  followed  us  to  the  door.  She  made  the 
same  motion  again  with  her  clinched  hand,  and 
looked  back  toward  the  garden — and  then  looked 
at  me,  and  nodded  her  head,  as  much  as  to  say, 


120  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

'He  will  do  it  yet!'  No  words  can  describe  how 
glad  I  was  to  see  the  last  of  her.  I  hope  and 
trust  I  shall  never  set  eyes  on  her  again!" 

"Did  you  hear  how  Mr.  Speedwell  came  to  be 
at  the  house?  Had  he  gone  of  his  own  accord? 
or  had  he  been  sent  for?" 

"He  had  been  sent  for.  I  ventured  to  speak 
to  him  about  the  persons  whom  I  had  seen  in 
the  garden.  Mr.  Speedwell  explained  every- 
thing which  I  was  not  able  of  myself  to  under- 
stand, in  the  kindest  manner.  One  of  the  two 
strange  men  in  the  garden  was  the  trainer;  the 
other  was  a  doctor,  whom  the  trainer  was  usually 
in  the  habit  of  consulting.  It  seems  that  the  real 
reason  for  their  bringing  Geoffrey  Delamayn 
away  from  Scotland  when  they  did,  was  that 
the  trainer  was  uneas)^,  and  wanted  to  be  near 
London  for  medical  advice.  The  doctor,  on  be- 
ing consulted,  owned  that  he  was  at  a  loss  to 
understand  the  symptoms  which  he  was  asked 
to  treat.  He  had  himself  fetched  the  great  sur- 
geon to  Fulham,  that  morning.  Mr.  Speedwell 
abstained  from  mentioning  that  he  had  foreseen 
what  would  happen  at  Windygates.  All  he  said 
was,  'I  had  met  Mr.  Delamayn  in  society,  and  I 
felt  interest  enough  in  the  case  to  pay  him  a 
visit — with  what  result,  you  have  seen  your- 
self.'" 

"Did  he  tell  you  anything  about  Delamayn's 
health?" 

"He  said  that  he  had  questioned  the  doctor 
on  the  waj^  to  Fulham,  and  that  some  of  the 
patient's  symptoms  indicated  serious  mischief. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  121 

What  the  symptoms  were  I  did  not  hear.  Mr. 
Speedwell  only  spoke  of  changes  for  the  worse 
in  him  which  a  woman  would  be  hkely  to  under- 
stand. At  one  time,  he  would  be  so  dull  and 
heedless  that  nothing  could  rouse  him.  At  an- 
other, he  flew  into  the  most  terrible  passions 
without  any  apparent  cause.  The  trainer  had 
found  it  almost  impossible  (in  Scotland)  to  keep 
him  to  the  right  diet ;  and  the  doctor  had  only 
sanctioned  taking  the  house  at  Fulham,  after 
being  first  satisfied  not  onl}^  of  the  convenience 
of  the  garden,  but  also  that  Hester" Dethridge 
could  be  thoroughly  trusted  as  a  cook.  With 
her  help,  they  had  placed  him  on  an  entirely 
new  diet.  But  they  had  found  an  unexpected 
diflficulty  even  in  doing  that.  When  the  trainer 
took  him  to  the  new  lodgings,  it  turned  out  that 
he  had  seen  Hester  Dethridge  at  Windygates, 
and  had  taken  the  strongest  prejudice  against 
her.  On  seeing  her  again  at  Fulham,  he  ap- 
peared to  be  absolutely  terrified." 

"Terrified?     Why?" 

"Nobody  knows  why.  The  trainer  and  the 
doctor  together  could  only  prevent  his  leaving 
the  house,  by  threatening  to  throw  up  the  re- 
sponsibility of  preparing  him  for  the  race,  unless 
he  instantly  controlled  himself,  and  behaved  like 
a  man  instead  of  a  child.  Since  that  time,  he 
has  become  reconciled,  little  by  little,  to  his  new 
abode — partly  through  Hester  Dethridge 's  cau- 
tion in  keeping  herself  always  out  of  his  way ; 
and  partly  through  his  own  appreciation  of  the 
change  in  his  diet,  which  Hester's  skill  in  cook- 


122  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

ery  has  enabled  the  doctor  to  make.  Mr.  Speed- 
M^ell  mentioned  some  things  which  I  have  for- 
gotten. I  can  only  repeat,  Sir  Patrick,  the  result 
at  which  he  has  arrived  in  his  own  mind.  Com- 
ing from  a  man  of  his  authority,  the  opinion 
seems  to  me  to  be  startling  in  the  last  degree.  If 
Geoffrey  Delamayn  runs  in  the  race  on  Thursday 
next,  he  will  do  it  at  the  risk  of  his  life." 

"At  the  risk  of  dying  on  the  ground?" 

"Yes." 

Sir  Patrick's  face  became  thoughtful.  He 
waited  a  little  before  he  spoke  again. 

"We  have  not  wasted  our  time,"  he  said,  "in 
dwelling  on  what  happened  during  your  visit  to 
Fulham.  The  possibility  of  this  man's  death 
suggests  to  my  mind  serious  matter  for  consid- 
eration. It  is  very  desirable,  in  the  interests  of 
my  niece  and  her  husband,  that  I  should  be  able 
to  foresee,  if  I  can,  how  a  fatal  result  of  the  race 
might  affect  the  inquiry  which  is  to  be  held  on 
Saturday  next.  I  believe  you  may  be  able  to 
help  me  in  this. ' ' 

"You  have  only  to  tell  me  how.  Sir  Patrick." 

"I  may  count  on  your  being  present  on  Satur- 
day?" 

"Certainly." 

"You  thoroughly  understand  that,  in  meeting 
Blanche,  you  will  meet  a  person  estranged  from 
you,  for  the  present— a  friend  and  sister  who  has 
ceased  (under  Lady  Lundie's  influence  mainly) 
to  feel  as  a  friend  and  sister  toward  you  now?" 

"I  was  not  quite  unprepared.  Sir  Patrick,  to 
hear  that  Blanche  had  misjudged  me.     When  I 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  123 

wrote  my  letter  to  Mr.  Brinkworth,  I  warned 
him  as  delicately  as  I  could  that  his  wife's  jeal- 
ousy might  be  very  easily  roused.  You  may 
rely  on  my  self-restraint,  no  matter  how  hardly 
it  may  be  tried.  Nothing  that  Blanche  can  say 
or  do  will  alter  my  grateful  remembrance  of  the 
past.  While  I  live,  I  love  her.  Let  that  assur- 
ance quiet  any  little  anxiety  that  you  may  have 
felt  as  to  my  conduct — and  tell  me  how  I  can 
serve  those  interests  which  I  have  at  heart  as 
well  as  you." 

"  Y'ou  can  serve  them.  Miss  Silvester,  in  this 
way.  You  can  make  me  acquainted  with  the 
position  in  which  you  stood  toward  Delamayn  at 
the  time  when  you  went  to  the  Craig  Fernie  inn. ' ' 

"Put  any  questions  to  me  that  you  think  right, 
Sir  Patrick." 

"You  mean  that?" 

"I  mean  it." 

"I  will  begin  by  recalling  something  which 
you  have  already  told  me.  Delamayn  has  prom- 
ised you  marriage — " 

' '  Over  and  over  again ! " 

"In  words?" 

"Yes." 

"In  writing?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  see  what  I  am  coming  to?" 

"Hardly  yet." 

"You  referred,  when  we  first  met  in  this  room, 
to  a  letter  which  you  recovered  from  Bishop- 
riggs,  at  Perth.  I  have  ascertained  from  Arnold 
Brinkworth  that  the  sheet  of  note-paper  stolen 
Vol.  4  r>— 


124  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

from  you  contained  two  letters.  One  was  writ- 
ten by  you  to  Delamayn — the  other  was  written 
by  Delama3^n  to  you.  The  substance  of  this  last 
Arnold  remembered.  Your  letter  he  had  not 
read.  It  is  of  the  utmost  importance,  Miss  Sil- 
vester, to  let  me  see  that  correspondence  before 
we  part  to-day." 

Anne  made  no  answer.  She  sat  with  her 
clasped  hands  on  her  lap.  Her  eyes  looked  un- 
easily away  from  Sir  Patrick's  face,  for  the  first 
time. 

"Will  it  not  be  enough,"  she  asked,  after  an 
interval,  "if  I  tell  you  the  substance  of  my  letter, 
without  showing  it?" 

"It  will  wo^  be  enough,"  returned  Sir  Patrick, 
in  the  plainest  manner.  "I  hinted — if  you  re- 
member— at  the  propriety  of  my  seeing  the  let- 
ter, when  you  first  mentioned  it ;  and  I  observed 
that  5^ou  purposely  abstained  from  understand- 
ing me.  I  am  grieved  to  put  5^ou,  on  this  occa- 
sion, to  a  painful  test.  But  if  you  at^e  to  help 
me  at  this  serious  crisis,  I  have  shown  you  the 
way." 

Anne  rose  from  her  chair,  and  answered  by 
putting  the  letter  into  Sir  Patrick's  hands.  "Re- 
member what  he  has  done  since  I  wrote  that," 
she  said.  "And  try  to  excuse  me,  if  I  own  that 
I  am  ashamed  to  show  it  to  you  now." 

With  those  words  she  walked  aside  to  the  win- 
dow. She  stood  there,  with  her  hand  pressed  on 
her  breast,  looking  out  absently  on  the  murky 
London  view  of  house-roof  and  chimney,  while 
Sir  Patrick  opened  the  letter. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  125 

It  is  necessary  to  the  right  appreciation  of 
events,  that  other  eyes  besides  Sir  Patrick's 
should  follow  the  brief  course  of  the  correspond- 
ence in  this  place. 

1.  From  Anne  Silvester  to  Geoffrey  Delamayn. 

"  WiNDYGATES  HOUSE,  Atigufit  12,  1868. 

"Geoffrey  Delamayn — I  have  waited  in 
the  hope  that  you  would  ride  over  from  your 
brother's  place  and  see  me — and  I  have  waited 
in  vain.  Your  conduct  to  me  is  cruelty  itself;  I 
will  bear  it  no  longer.  Consider !  in  your  own 
interests,  consider — before  you  drive  the  misera- 
ble woman  who  has  trusted  you  to  despair.  You 
have  promised  me  marriage  by  all  that  is  sacred. 
I  claim  your  promise.  I  insist  on  nothing  less 
than  to  be  what  you  vowed  I  should  be — what  I 
have  waited  all  this  weary  time  to  be — what  I 
am,  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  your  wedded  wife. 
Lady  Lundie  gives  a  lawn-party  here  on  the 
14th.  I  know  you  have  been  asked.  I  expect 
you  to  accept  her  invitation.  If  I  don't  see  you, 
I  won't  answer  for  what  may  happen.  My  mind 
is  made  up  to  endure  this  suspense  no  longer. 
Oh,  Geoffrey,  remember  the  past!  Be  faithful 
— be  just — to  your  loving  wife, 

"Anne  Silvester." 

2.  From  Geoffrey  Delamayn  to  Anne  Sil- 
vester. 

"Dear  Anne — Just  called  to  London  to  my 
father.  Thej^  have  telegraphed  him  in  a  bad 
way.     Stop  where  you  are,  and  I  will  write  you. 


126  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Trust  the  bearer.     Upon  my  soul,  I'll  keep  my 
promise.     Your  loving  husband  that  is  to  be, 
"Geoffrey  Delamayn. 

"WiNDYGATES  HousE,  Aug.  14,  4  P.M. 

"In  a  mortal  hurry.     Train  starts  at  4.30." 

Sir  Patrick  read  the  correspondence  with 
breathless  attention  to  the  end.  At  the  last  lines 
of  the  last  letter  he  did  what  he  had  not  done  for 
twenty  years  past — he  sprang  to  his  feet  at  a 
bound,  and  he  crossed  a  room  without  the  help 
of  his  ivory  cane. 

Anne  started;  and  turning  round  from  the 
window,  looked  at  him  in  silent  surprise.  He 
was  under  the  influence  of  strong  emotion ;  his 
face,  his  voice,  his  manner,  all  showed  it. 

"How  long  had  you  been  in  Scotland  when 
you  wrote  this?"  He  pointed  to  Anne's  letter 
as  he  asked  the  question,  putting  it  so  eagerly 
that  he  stammered  over  the  first  words.  "More 
than  three  weeks?"  he  added,  with  his  bright 
black  eyes  fixed  in  absorbing  interest  on  her  face. 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?" 

"I  am  certain  of  it." 

'  ■  You  can  refer  to  persons  who  have  seen  you?" 

"Easily." 

He  turned  the  sheet  of  note-paper,  and  pointed 
to  Geoffrey's  penciled  letter  on  the  fourth  page. 

"How  long  had  he  been  in  Scotland  when  he 
wrote  this?     More  than  three  weeks,  too?" 

Anne  considered  for  a  moment. 

"For  God's  sake,  be  careful!"  said  Sir  Pat- 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  127 

rick.  "You  don't  know  what  depends  on  this. 
If  your  memory  is  not  clear  about  it,  say  so. ' ' 

"My  memory  was  confused  for  a  moment.  It 
is  clear  again  now.  He  had  been  at  his  brother's 
in  Perthshire  three  weeks  before  he  wrote  that. 
And  before  he  went  to  Swanhaven,  he  spent 
three  or  four  days  in  the  valley  of  the  Esk." 

"Are  you  sure  again?" 

"Quite  sure!" 

"Do  5"0u  know  of  anyone  who  saw  him  in  the 
valley  of  the  Esk?" 

"I  know  of  a  person  who  took  a  note  to  him 
from  me." 

"A  person  easily  found?" 

"Quite  easily." 

Sir  Patrick  laid  aside  the  letter,  and  seized  in 
ungovernable  agitation  on  both  her  hands. 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  said.  "The  whole  con- 
spiracy against  Arnold  Brinkworth  and  you 
falls  to  the  ground  before  that  correspondence. 
When  you  and  he  met  at  the  inn — " 

He  paused,  and  looked  at  her.  Her  hands 
were  beginning  to  tremble  in  his. 

"When  you  and  Arnold  Brinkworth  met  at 
the  inn,"  he  resumed,  'the  law  of  Scotland  had 
made  you  a  married  woman.  On  the  day,  and 
at  the  hour,  when  he  wrote  those  lines  at  the 
back  of  your  letter  to  him,  you  were  Geoffrey 
Delamayn^ s  icedded  wife  ."' 

He  stopped,  and  looked  at  her  again. 

Without  a  word  in  reply,  without  the  slightest 
movement  in  her  from  head  to  foot,  she  looked 
back  at  him.     The  blank  stillness  of  horror  was 


138  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

in  her  face.  The  deadly  cold  of  horror  was  in 
her  hands. 

In  silence,  on  his  side,  Sir  Patrick  drew  back 
a  step,  with  a  faint  reflection  of  her  dismay  in 
liis  face.  Married — to  the  villain  who  had  not 
hesitated  to  calumniate  the  woman  whom  he  had 
ruined,  and  then  to  cast  her  helpless  on  the 
world.  Married — to  the  traitor  who  had  not 
shrunk  from  betraying  Arnold's  trust  in  him, 
and  desolating  Arnold's  home.  Married — to  the 
ruffian  who  would  have  struck  her  that  morning, 
if  the  hands  of  his  own  friends  had  not  held  him 
back.  And  Sir  Patrick  had  never  thought  of  it  \ 
Absorbed  in  the  one  idea  of  Blanche's  future,  he 
had  never  thought  of  it,  till  that  horror-stricken 
face  looked  at  him,  and  said,  Think  of  myixxtnve, 
too! 

He  came  back  to  her.  He  took  her  cold  hand 
once  more  in  his. 

•'Forgive  me,"  he  said,  "for  thinking  first  of 
Blanche." 

Blanche's  name  seemed  to  rouse  her.  The  life 
came  back  to  her  face ;  the  tender  brightness  be- 
gan to  shine  again  in  her  eyes.  He  saw  that  he 
might  venture  to  speak  more  plainly  still:  he 
went  on. 

*'I  see  the  dreadful  sacrifice  as  you  see  it.  I 
a-sk  myself,  have  I  any  right,  has  Blanche  any 
right—" 

She  stopped  him  by  a  faint  pressure  of  his  hand. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  softly,  "if  Blanche's  happi- 
ness depends  on  it." 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  129 


THIRTEENTH  SCENE.— FULHAM. 


CHAPTER  THE   FORTY-FIFTH. 

THE    FOOT-RACE. 

A  SOLITARY  foreigner,  drifting  about  London, 
drifted  toward  Fulham  on  the  day  of  the  Foot- 
race. 

Little  by  little,  he  found  himself  involved  in 
the  current  of  a  throng  of  impetuous  English 
jjeople,  all  flowing  together  toward  one  given 
point,  and  all  decorated  alike  with  colors  of  two 
prevailing  hues — pink  and  yellow.  He  drifted 
along  with  the  stream  of  passengers  on  the  pave- 
ment (accompanied  by  a  stream  of  carriages  in 
the  I'oad)  until  they  stopped  with  one  accord  at 
a  gate — and  paid  admission-money  to  a  man  in 
office— and  poured  into  a  great  open  space  of 
ground  which  looked  like  an  uncultivated  garden. 

Arrived  here,  the  foreign  visitor  opened  his 
eyes  in  wonder  at  the  scene  revealed  to  view. 
He  observed  thousands  of  people  assembled,  com- 
posed almost  exclusively  of  the  middle  and  upper 
classes  of  society.  They  were  congregated  round 
a  vast  inclosure ;  they  were  elevated  on  amphi- 
theatrical  wooden  stands ;  and  they  were  perched 
on  the  roofs  of  horseless  carriages,  drawn  up  in 
row^.  From  this  congregation  there  rose  such  a 
roar  of  eager  voices  as  he  had  never  heard  yet 
from  any  assembled  multitude  in  these  islands. 


130  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Predominating  among  the  cries,  he  detected  one 
everlasting  question.  It  began  with,  "Who 
backs — ?"  and  it  ended  in  the  alternate  pro- 
nouncing of  two  British  names  unintelligible  to 
foreign  ears.  Seeing  these  extra,ordinary  sights, 
and  hearing  these  stirring  sounds,  he  applied  to 
a  policeman  on  duty ;  and  said,  in  his  best  pro- 
ducible English,  "If  you  please,  sir,  what  is 
this?" 

The  policeman  answered, ' '  North  against  South 
—Sports." 

The  foreigner  was  informed,  but  not  satisfied. 
He  pointed  aU  round  the  assembh^  with  a  circular 
sweep  of  his  hand;  and  said,  "Why?" 

The  policeman  declined  to  waste  words  on  a 
man  who  could  ask  such  a  question  as  that.  He 
lifted  a  large  purple  forefinger,  with  a  broad 
white  nail  at  the  end  of  it,  and  pointed  gravely 
to  a  printed  Bill,  posted  on  the  wall  behind  him. 
The  drifting  foreigner  drifted  to  the  Bill. 

After  reading  it  carefully,  from  top  to  bottom, 
he  consulted  a  polite  private  individual  near  at 
hand,  who  proved  to  be  far  more  communicative 
than  the  policeman.  The  result  on  his  mind,  as 
a  person  not  thoroughly  awakened  to  the  enor- 
mous national  importance  of  Athletic  Sports, 
was  much  as  follows : 

The  color  of  North  is  pink.  The  color  of  South 
is  yellow.  North  produces  fourteen  pink  men, 
and  South  produces  thirteen  yellow  men.  The 
meeting  of  pink  and  yellow  is  a  solemnity.  '  The 
solemnity  takes  its  rise  in  an  indomitable  na- 
tional passion  for  hardening  the  arms  and  legs. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  131 

by  throwing  hammers  and  cricket-balls  with  the 
first,  and  running  and  jumping  with  the  second. 
The  object  in  view  is  to  do  this  in  public  rivalry. 
The  ends  arrived  at  are  (physically)  an  excessive 
development  of  the  muscles,  purchased  at  the 
expense  of  an  excessive  strain  on  the  heart  and 
the  lungs — (morally),  glory;  conferred  at  the 
moment  by  the  public  applause;  confirmed  the 
next  day  by  a  report  in  the  newspapers.  Any 
person  who  presumes  to  see  any  physical  evil 
involved  in  these  exercises  to  the  men  who  prac- 
tice them,  or  any  moral  obstruction  in  the  exhi- 
bition itself  to  those  civilizing  influences  on 
which  the  true  greatness  of  all  nations  depends, 
is  a  person  without  a  biceps,  who  is  simply  in- 
comprehensible. Muscular  England  develops 
itself,  and  takes  no  notice  of  him. 

The  foreigner  mixed  with  the  assembly,  and 
looked  more  closely  at  the  social  spectacle  around 
him. 

He  had  met  with  these  people  before.  He  had 
seen  them  (for  instance)  at  the  theater,  and  had 
observed  their  manners  and  customs  with  con- 
siderable curiositj^  and  surprise.  When  the  cur- 
tain was  down,  they  were  so  little  interested  in 
what  they  had  come  to  see,  that  they  had  hardly 
spirit  enough  to  speak  to  each  other  between  the 
acts.  When  the  curtain  was  up,  if  the  play 
made  any  appeal  to  their  sympathy  with  any  of 
the  higher  and  nobler  emotions  of  humanity, 
they  received  it  as  something  wearisome,  or 
sneered  at  it  as  something  absurd.  The  public 
feeling  of  the  countrymen  of  Shakespeare,  so  far 


132  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

as  they  represented  it,  recognized  but  two  duties 
in  the  dramatist — the  duty  of  making  them 
laugh,  and  the  duty  of  getting  it  over  soon.  The 
two  great  merits  of  a  stage  proprietor,  in  En- 
gland (judging  by  the  rare  applause  of  his  culti- 
vated customers),  consisted  in  spending  plenty 
of  money  on  his  scenery,  and  in  hiring  plenty  of 
brazen-faced  women  to  exhibit  their  bosoms  and 
their  legs.  Not  at  theaters  only;  but  among 
other  gatherings,  in  other  places,  the  foreigner 
had  noticed  the  same  stolid  languor  where  any 
effort  was  exacted  from  genteel  English  brains, 
and  the  same  stupid  contempt  where  any  appeal 
was  made  to  genteel  English  hearts.  Preserve 
us  from  enjoying  anything  but  jokes  and  scan- 
dal !  Preserve  us  from  respecting  anything  but 
rank  and  money!  There  were  the  social  aspi- 
ration of  these  insular  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
as  expressed  under  other  circumstances,  and  as 
betrayed  amid  other  scenes.  Here  all  was 
changed.  Here  was  the  strong,  feeling,  the 
breathless  interest,  the  hearty  enthusiasm,  not 
visible  elsewhere.  Here  were  the  superb  gentle- 
men who  were  too  weary  to  speak  when  an  Art 
was  addressing  them,  shouting  themselves  hoarse 
with  burst  on  burst  of  genuine  applause.  Here 
were  the  fine  ladies  who  yawned  behind  their 
fans  at  the  bare  idea  of  being  called  on  to  think 
or  to  feel,  waving  their  handkerchiefs  in  honest 
delight,  and  actually  flushing  with  excitement 
through  their  powder  and  their  paint.  And  all 
for  what?  All  for  running  and  jumping— all 
for  throwing  hammers  and  balls. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  133 

The  foreigner  looked  at  it,  and  tried,  as  a  citi- 
zen of  a  civilized  country,  to  understand  it.  He 
was  still  trying— when  there  occurred  a  pause  in 
the  performances. 

Certain  hurdles,  which  had  served  to  exhibit 
the  present  satisfactory  state  of  civilization  (in 
jumping)  among  the  upper  classes,  were  re- 
moved. The  privileged  persons  who  had  duties 
to  perform  within  the  inclosure,  looked  all  round 
it ;  and  disappeared  one  after  another.  A  great 
hush  of  expectation  pervaded  the  whole  assem- 
bly. Something  of  no  common  interest  and  im- 
portance was  evidently  about  to  take  place.  On 
a  sudden,  the  silence  was  broken  by  a  roar  of 
cheering  from  the  mob  in  the  road  outside  the 
grounds.  People  looked  at  each  other  excitedly, 
and  said,  "One  of  them  has  come."  The  silence 
prevailed  again — and  was  a  second  time  broken 
by  another  roar  of  applause.  People  nodded  to 
each  other  with  an  air  of  relief  and  said,  "Both 
of  them  have  come. ' '  Then  the  great  hush  fell 
on  the  crowd  once  more ;  and  all  eyes  looked  to- 
ward one  particular  point  of  the  ground,  occu- 
pied by  a  little  wooden  pavilion,  with  the  blinds 
down  over  the  open  windows,  and  the  door  closed. 

The  foreigner  was  deeply  impressed  by  the 
silent  expectation  of  the  great  throng  about 
him.  He  felt  his  own  S3^mpathies  stirred,  with- 
out knowing  why.  He  believed  himself  to  be  on 
the  point  of  understanding  the  English  people. 

Some  ceremony  of  grave  importance  was  evi- 
dently in  preparation.  Was  a  great  orator  going 
to  address  the  assembly?     Was  a  glorious  anni- 


134  WORKS   OF   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

versary  to  be  commemorated?  Was  a  religious 
service  to  be  performed?  He  looked  round  him 
to  apply  for  information  once  more.  Two  gen- 
tlemen— who  contrasted  favorably,  so  far  as  re- 
finement of  manner  was  concerned,  with  most  of 
the  spectators  present — were  slowly  making  their 
way,  at  that  moment,  through  the  crowd  near 
him.  He  respectfully  asked  what  national  so- 
lemnity was  now  about  to  take  place.  They  in- 
formed him  that  a  pair  of  strong  young  men 
were  going  to  run  round  the  inclosure  for  a  given 
number  of  turns,  with  the  object  of  ascertaining 
which  could  run  the  fastest  of  the  two. 

The  foreigner  lifted  his  hands  and  eyes  to 
heaven.  Oh  multifarious  Providence!  who 
would  have  suspected  that  the  infinite  diversities 
of  thy  creation  included  such  beings  as  these! 
With  that  aspiration,  he  turned  his  back  on  the 
race-course,  and  left  the  place. 

On  his  way  out  of  the  grounds  he  had  occa- 
sion to  use  his  handkerchief,  and  found  that  it 
was  gone.  He  felt  next  for  his  purse.  His 
purse  was  missing  too.  When  he  was  back  again 
in  his  own  country,  intelligent  inquiries  were 
addressed  to  him  on  the  subject  of  England.  He 
had  but  one  reply  to  give.  "The  whole  nation 
is  a  mystery  to  me.  Of  all  the  English  people  I 
only  understand  the  English  thieves!" 

In  the  meantime  the  two  gentlemen,  making 
their  way  through  the  crowd,  reached  a  wicket- 
gate  in  the  fence  which  surrounded  the  inclosure. 

Presenting  a  written  order  to  the  policeman  in 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  ioO 

charge  of  the  gate,  they  were  forthwith  admit- 
ted within  the  sacred  precincts.  The  closely 
packed  spectators,  regarding  them  with  mixed 
feelings  of  envy  and  curiosity,  wondered  who 
they  might  be.  Were  they  referees  appointed 
to  act  at  the  coming  race?  or  reporters  for  the 
newspapers?  or  commissioners  of  police?  They 
were  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  They  were 
only  Mr.  Speedwell,  the  surgeon,  and  Sir  Pat- 
rick Lundie. 

The  two  gentlemen  walked  into  the  center  of 
the  inclosure,  and  looked  round  them. 

The  grass  on  which  they  were  standing  was 
girdled  by  a  broad  smooth  path,  composed  of 
tinely-sifted  ashes  and  sand — and  this  again  was 
surrounded  by  the  fence  and  by  the  spectators 
ranked  behind  it.  Above  the  lines  thus  formed 
rose  on  one  side  the  amphitheaters  with  their 
tiers  of  crowded  benches,  and  on  the  other  the 
long  rows  of  carriages  with  the  sightseers  inside 
and  out.  The  evening  sun  was  shining  brightly, 
the  light  and  shade  lay  together  in  grand  masses, 
the  varied  colors  of  objects  blended  softly  one 
with  the  other.  It  was  a  splendid  and  an  in- 
spiriting scene. 

Sir  Patrick  turned  from  the  rows  of  eager 
faces  all  round  him  to  his  friend  the  sur- 
geon. 

"Is  there  one  person  to  be  found  in  this  vast 
crowd,"  he  asked,  "who  has  come  to  see  the 
race  with  the  doubt  in  his  mind  which  has 
brought  lis  to  see  it?" 

Mr.  Speedwell  shook  his  head.     "Not  one  of 


136  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

tliem  knows  or  cares  what  the  struggle  may  cost 
the  men  who  engage  in  it. ' ' 

Sir  Patrick  looked  round  him  again.  "I  al- 
most wish  I  had  not  come  to  see  it, "  he  said. 
"If  this  wretched  man — " 

The  surgeon  interposed.  "Don't  dwell  need- 
lessly, Sir  Patrick,  on  the  gloomy  view,"  he  re- 
joined. "The  opinion  I  have  formed  has,  thus 
far,  no  positive  grounds  to  rest  on.  I  am  guess- 
ing rightly,  as  I  believe,  but  at  the  same  time  I 
am  guessing  in  the  dark.  Appearances  may 
have  misled  me.  There  may  be  reserves  of  vital 
force  in  Mr.  Delamayn's  constitution  which  I 
don't  suspect.  I  am  here  to  learn  a  lesson — not 
to  see  a  prediction  fulfilled.  I  know  his  health 
is  broken,  and  I  believe  he  is  going  to  run  this 
race  at  his  own  proper  peril.  Don't  feel  too  sure 
beforehand  of  the  event.  The  event  may  prove 
me  to  be  wrong. ' ' 

For  the  moment  Sir  Patrick  dropped  the  sub- 
ject.    He  was  not  in  his  usual  spirits. 

Since  his  interview  with  Anne  had  satisfied 
him  that  she  was  Geoffrey's  lawful  wife,  the 
conviction  had  inevitably  forced  itself  on  his 
mind  that  the  one  possible  chance  for  her  in  the 
future  was  the  chance  of  Geoffrey's  death. 
Horrible  as  it  was  to  him,  he  had  been  possessed 
by  that  one  idea — go  where  he  might,  do  what 
he  might,  struggle  as  he  might  to  force  his 
thoughts  in  other  directions.  He  looked  round 
the  broad  ashen  path  on  which  the  race  was  to 
be  run,  conscious  that  he  had  a  secret  interest  in 
it  which  it  was  unutterably  repugnant  to  him  to 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  1U7 

feel.  He  tried  to  resume  the  conversation  with 
his  friend,  and  to  lead  it  to  other  topics.  The 
effort  was  useless.  In  despite  of  himself,  he 
returned  to  the  one  fatal  subject  of  the  struggle 
that  was  now  f4ose  at  hand. 

"How  many  times  must  they  go  round  this  in- 
closure, ' '  he  inquired,  ' '  before  the  race  is  ended  ? ' ' 

Mr.  Speedwell  turned  toward  a  gentleman  who 
was  approaching  them  at  the* moment.  "Here 
is  somebod}'-  coming  who  can  tell  us,"  he  said. 

"You  know  him?" 

"He  is  one  of  my  patients." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"After  the  two  runners  he  is  the  most  impor- 
tant personage  on  the  ground.  He  is  the  final 
authority — the  umpire  of  the  race." 

The  person  thus  described  was  a  middle-aged 
man,  with  a  prematurely  wrinkled  face,  with 
prematurely  white  hair,  and  with  something  of 
a  military  look  about  him — brief  in  speech,  and 
quick  in  manner, 

"The  path  measures  four  hundred  and  forty 
yards  round,"  he  said,  when  the  surgeon  had 
repeated  Sir  Patrick's  question  to  him.  "In 
plainer  words,  and  not  to  put  j^ou  to  your  arith- 
metic, once  round  it  is  a  quarter  cf  a  mile.  Each 
round  is  called  a  'Lap.'  The  men  must  run  six- 
teen Laps  to  finish  the  race.  Not  to  put  you  to 
your  arithmetic  again,  they  must  run  four  miles 
— the  longest  race  of  this  kind  which  it  is  custom- 
ary to  attempt  at  sports  like  these." 

"Professional pedestrians  exceed  that  limit,  do 
they  not?" 


138  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"Considerably — on  certain  occasions." 

"Are  they  a  long-lived  race?" 

' '  Far  from  it.  They  are  exceptions  when  they 
live  to  be  old  men." 

Mr.  Speedwell  looked  at  Sir  Patrick.  Sir  Pat- 
rick put  a  question  to  the  umpire. 

"You  have  just  told  us,"  he  said,  "that  the 
two  young  men  who  appear  to-day  are  going  to 
run  the  longest  distance  yet  attempted  in  their 
experience.  Is  it  generally  thought,  by  persons 
who  understand  such  things,  that  they  are  both 
fit  to  bear  the  exertion  demanded  of  them?" 

"You  can  judge  for  yourself,  sir.  Here  is  one 
of  them." 

He  pointed  toward  the  pavilion.  At  the  same 
moment  there  rose  a  mighty  clapping  of  hands 
from  the  great  throng  of  spectators.  Fleetwood, 
champion  of  the  North,  decorated  in  his  pink 
colors,  descended  the  pavilion  steps  and  walked 
into  the  arena. 

Young,  lithe  and  elegant,  with  supple  strength 
expressed  in  every  movement  of  his  limbs,  with 
a  bright  smile  on  his  resolute  young  face,  the 
man  of  the  North  won  the  women's  hearts  at 
starting.  The  murmur  of  eager  talk  rose  among 
them  on  all  sides.  The  men  were  quieter — 
especially  the  men  who  understood  the  subject. 
It  was  a  serious  question  with  these  experts 
whether  Fleetwood  was  not  "a  little  too  fine." 
Superbly  trained,  it  was  admitted — but,  pos- 
sibly, a  little  o?;er-trained  for  a  four-mile 
race. 

The  Northern  hero  was  followed  into  the  in- 


MAN   AND   WIFEo  139 

closure  by  his  friends  and  backers,  and  by  his 
trainer.  This  last  carried  a  tin  can  in  his  hand. 
"Cold  water,"  the  umpire  explained.  "If  he 
gets  exhausted,  his  trainer  will  pick  him  up  with 
a  dash  of  it  as  he  goes  by. ' ' 

A  new  burst  of  hand-clapping  rattled  all  round 
the  arena.  Delamayn,  champion  of  the  South, 
decorated  in  his  yellow  colors,  presented  himself 
to  the  public  view. 

The  immense  hum  of  voices  rose  louder  and 
louder  as  he  walked  into  the  center  of  the  great 
green  space.  Surprise  at  the  extraordinary  con- 
trast between  the  two  men  was  the  prevalent  emo- 
tion of  the  moment.  Geoffrey  was  more  than  a 
head  taller  than  his  antagonist,  and  broader  in  full 
proportion.  The  women,  who  had  been  charmed 
with  the  easy  gait  and  confident  smile  of  Fleet- 
wood, were  all  more  or  less  painfully  impressed 
by  the  sullen  strength  of  the  Southern  man,  as 
he  passed  before  them  slowly,  with  his  head 
down  and  his  brows  knit,  deaf  to  the  applause 
showered  on  him,  reckless  of  the  eyes  that  looked 
at  him;  speaking  to  nobody;  concentrated  in 
himself ;  biding  his  time.  He  held  the  men  who 
understood  the  subject  breathless  with  interest. 
There  it  was!  the  famous  "staying  power"  that 
was  to  endure  in  the  last  terrible  half-mile  of 
the  race,  when  the  nimble  and  jaunty  Fleetwood 
was  run  off  his  legs.  Whispers  had  been  spread 
abroad  hinting  at  something  which  had  gone 
wrong  with  Delamayn  in  his  training.  And 
now  that  all  eyes  could  judge  him,  his  appear- 
ance suggested  criticism  in  some  quarters.     It 


140  WORKS     OF    WILKIE    COLLINS^ 

was  exsLctlj  the  opposite  of  the  criticism  passed 
on  his  antagonist.  The  doubt  as  to  Delamayn 
was  whether  he  had  been  sufficiently  trained. 
Still  the  solid  strength  of  the  man,  the  slow, 
panther-like  smoothness  of  his  movements — and, 
above  all,  his  great  reputation  in  the  world  of 
muscle  and  sjjort — had  their  effect  The  betting 
which,  with  occasional  fluctuations,  had  held 
steadily  in  his  favor  thus  far,  held,  now  that  he 
was  publicly  seen,  steadilj^  in  his  faA^or  still. 
"Fleetwood  for  shorter  distances,  if  you  like; 
but  Delamayn  for  a  foiir-mile  race." 

"Do  3^ou  think  he  sees  us?"  whispered  Sir 
Patrick  to  the  surgeon. 

' '  Pie  sees  nobody. ' ' 

"Can  you  judge  of  the  condition  he  is  in,  at 
this  distance?" 

"He  has  twice  the  muscular  strength  of  the 
other  man.  His  trunk  and  limbs  are  magnifi- 
cent. It  is  useless  to  ask  me  more  than  that 
about  his  condition.  We  are  too  far  from  him 
to  see  his  face  plainly. ' ' 

The  conversation  among  the  audience  began 
to  flag  again;  and  the  silent  expectation  set  in 
among  them  once  more.  One  by  one  the  differ- 
ent persons  officially  connected  with  the  race 
gathered  together  on  the  grass.  The  trainer 
Perry  was  among  them,  with  his  can  of  water 
in  his  hand,  in  anxious  whispering  conversation 
with  his  principal — giving  him  the  last  words 
of  advice  before  the  start.  The  trainer's  doctor, 
leaving  them  together,  came  up  to  pay  his  re- 
spects to  his  illustrious  colleague. 


MAN   AND    WIFE.  Irtl 

"How  has  he  got  on  since  I  was  at  Fulham?" 
asked  Mr.  Speedwell. 

"First-rate,  sir!  It  was  one  of  Ins  bad  days 
when  you  saw  him.  He  has  done  wonders  in 
the  last  eight-and-forty  hours." 

"Is  he  going  to  win  the  race?" 

Privately  the  doctor  had  done  what  Perry  had 
done  before  him — he  had  backed  Geoffrey's  an- 
tagonist. Publicly  he  was  true  to  his  colors. 
He  cast  a  disparaging  look  at  Fleetwood — and 
answered  Yes,  without  the  slightest  hesitation. 

At  that  point,  the  conversation  was  suspended 
by  a  sudden  movement  in  the  inclosure.  The 
runners  were  on  their  way  to  the  starting-place. 
The  moment  of  the  race  had  come. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  the  two  men  waited — 
each  with  his  foot  touching  the  mark.  The  fir- 
ing of  a  pistol  gave  the  signal  for  the  start.  At 
the  instant  when  the  report  sounded  they  were  off. 

Fleetwood  at  once  took  the  lead;  Delamayn 
following,  at  from  two  to  three  yards  behind 
him.  In  that  order,  they  ran  the  first  round,  the 
second,  the  third — both  reserving  their  strength ; 
both  watched  with  breathless  interest  by  every 
soul  in  the  place.  The  trainers,  with  their  cans 
in  their  hands,  ran  backward  and  forward  over 
the  grass,  meeting  their  men  at  certain  points, 
and  eying  them  narrowly,  in  silence.  The 
official  persons  stood  together  in  a  group,  f  heir 
eyes  following  the  runners  round  and  round 
with  the  closest  attention.  The  trainer's  doctor, 
8till  attached  to  his  illustrious  colleague,  offered 


142  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

the  necessary  expla,nations  to  Mr.  Speedwell  and 
his  friend. 

"Nothing  much  to  see  for  the  first  mile,  sir, 
except  the  'style'  of  the  two  men." 

"You  mean  they  are  not  really  exerting  them- 
selves yet?" 

"No;  getting  their  Mand,  and  feeling  their 
legs.  Pretty  runner,  Fleetwood — if  you  notice, 
sir?  Gets  his  legs  a  trifle  better  in  front,  and 
hardly  lifts  his  heels  quite  so  high  as  our  man. 
His  action's  the  best  of  the  two;  I  grant  that. 
But  just  look,  as  they  come  by,  which  keeps  the 
straightest  line.  There's  where  Delamayn  has 
him !  It's  a  steadier,  stronger,  truer  pace ;  and 
you'll  see  it  tell  when  they're  half-way  through. " 
So,  for  the  first  three  rounds,  the  doctor  expati- 
ated on  the  two  contrasted  "styles" — in  terms 
mercifully  adapted  to  the  comprehension  of  per- 
sons unacquainted  with  the  language  of  the  run- 
ning ring. 

At  the  fourth  round — in  other  words,  at  the 
round  which  completed  the  first  mile,  the  first 
change  in  the  relative  position  of  the  runners  oc- 
curred. Delamayn  suddenly  dashed  to  the  front. 
Fleetwood  smiled  as  the  other  passed  him.  Del- 
amayn held  the  lead  till  they  were  half  way 
through  the  fifth  round — when  Fleetwood,  at  a 
hint  from  his  trainer,  forced  the  pace.  He 
lightly  passed  Delamayn  in  an  instant;  and  led 
again  to  the  completion  of  the  sixth  round.  At 
the  opening  of  the  seventh,  Delamayn  forced 
the  pace  on  his  side.  For  a  few  moments,  they 
ran    exactly    abreast.      Then   Delamayn    drew 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  143 

away  inch  by  inch ;  and  recovered  the  lead.  The 
first  burst  of  applause  (led  by  the  South)  rang 
out,  as  the  hig  man  beat  Fleetwood  at  his  own 
tactics,  and  headed  him  at  the  critical  moment 
when  the  race  was  nearly  half  run. 

"It  begins  to  look  as  if  Delamayn  ivas  going 
to  win!"  said  Sir  Patrick. 

The  trainer's  doctor  forgot  himself.  Infected 
by  the  rising  excitement  of  everybody  about  him, 
he  let  out  the  truth. 

"Wait  a  bit!"  he  said.  "Fleetwood  has  got 
directions  to  let  him  pass — Fleetwood  is  waiting 
to  see  what  he  can  do." 

"Cunning,  you  see,  Sir  Patrick,  is  one  of  the 
elements  in  a  mardy  sport,"  said  Mr.  Speedwell, 
quietly. 

At  the  end  of  the  seventh  round,  Fleetwood 
proved  the  doctor  to  be  right.  He  shot  past 
Delamayn  like  an  arrow  from  a  bow.  At  the 
end  of  the  eighth  round,  he  was  leading  by  two 
yards.  Half  the  race  had  then  been  run.  Time, 
ten  minutes  and  thirty-three  seconds. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  ninth  round,  the  pace 
slackened  a  little;  and  Delamayn  was  in  front 
again.  He  kept  ahead,  until  the  opening  of  the 
eleventh  round.  At  that  point,  Fleetwood  flung 
up  one  hand  in  the  air  with  a  gesture  of  tri- 
umph, and  bounded  past  Delamayn  with  a  shout 
of  "Hooray  for  the  North?"  The  shout  was 
echoed  by  the  spectators.  In  proportion  as  the 
exertion  began  to  tell  upon  the  men,  so  the  ex- 
citement steadily  rose  among  the  people  looking 
at  them. 


144  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

At  the  twelfth  round,  Fleetwood  was  leading 
b}'  six  yards.  Cries  of  triumph  rose  among  the 
adherents  of  the  ISTorth,  met  by  counter-cries  of 
defiance  from  the  South.  At  the  next  turn  Del- 
amayn  resolutely  lessened  the  distance  between 
his  antagonist  and  himself.  At  the  opening  of 
the  fourteenth  round,  they  were  coming  side  by 
side.  A  few  yards  more,  and  Delamayn  was  in 
front  again,  amid  a  roar  of  applause  froin  the 
whole  public  voice.  Yet  a  few  yards  further, 
and  Fleetwood  neared  him ;  passed  him ;  dropped 
behind  again;  led  again;  and  was  passed  again 
at  the  end  of  the  round.  The  excitement  rose 
to  its  highest  pitch,  as  the  runners — gasping  for 
breath;  with  dark-flushed  faces,  and  heaving 
breasts — alternately  passed  and  repassed  each 
other.  Oaths  were  heard  now  as  well  as  cheers. 
Women  turned  pale,  and  men  set  their  teeth,  as 
the  last  round  but  one  began. 

At  the  opening  of  it,  Delamayn  was  still  in 
advance.  Before  six  yards  more  had  been  cov- 
ered, Fleetwood  betrayed  the  purpose  of  his  run- 
ning in  the  previous  round,  and  electrified  the 
whole  assembly,  by  dashing  past  his  antagonist 
— for  the  first  time  in  the  race  at  the  top  of  his 
speed.  Everybody  present  could  see,  now,  that 
Delamayn  had  been  allowed  to  lead  on  sufferance 
— had  been  dexterously  drawn  on  to  put  out  his 
whole  power — and  had  then,  and  not  till  then, 
been  seriously  deprived  of  the  lead.  He  made 
another  effort,  with  a  resolution  that  roused  the 
public  enthusiasm  to  frenzy.  While  the  voices 
were  roaring ;  while  the  hats  and  handkerchiefs 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  145 

were  waving  round  the  course ;  while  the  actual 
event  of  the  race  was,  for  one  supreme  moment, 
still  in  doubt — Mr.  Speedwell  caught  Sir  Pat- 
rick by  the  arm. 

"Prepare  yourself!"  he  whispered.  "It's  all 
over." 

As  the  words  passed  his  lips,  Delamayn 
swerved  on  the  path.  His  trainer  dashed  water 
over  him.  He  rallied,  and  ran  another  step  or 
two — swerved  again — staggered — lifted  his  arm 
to  his  mouth  with  a  hoarse  cry  of  rage — fastened 
his  own  teeth  in  his  flesh  like  a  wild  beast — and 
fell  senseless  on  the  course. 

A  babel  of  sounds  arose.  The  cries  of  alarm 
in  some  places,  mingling  with  the  shouts  of  tri- 
umph from  the  backers  of  Fleetwood  in  others — 
as  their  man  ran  lightly  on  to  win  the  now  un- 
contested race.  Not  the  inclosure  only,  but  the 
course  itself  was  invaded  by  the  crowd.  In  the 
midst  of  the  tumult  the  fallen  man  was  drawn 
on  to  the  grass — with  Mr.  Speedwell  and  the 
trainer's  doctor  in  attendance  on  him.  At  the 
terrible  moment  when  the  surgeon  laid  his  hand 
on  the  heart,  Fleetwood  passed  the  spot — a  pas- 
sage being  forced  for  him  through  the  people  by 
his  friends  and  the  police— running  the  sixteenth 
and  last  round  of  the  race. 

Had  the  beaten  man  fainted  under  it,  or  had 
he  died  under  if?  Everybody  waited,  with  their 
eyes  riveted  on  the  surgeon's  hand. 

The  surgeon  looked  up  from  him,  and  called 
for  water  to  throw  over  his  face,  for  brandy  to 
put   into   his  mouth.     He   was   coming  to  life 


146  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

again — he  had  survived  the  race.  The  last  shout 
of  applause  which  hailed  Fleetwood's  victory- 
rang  out  as  they  lifted  him  from  the  ground  to 
carry  him  to  the  pavilion.  Sir  Patrick  (admit- 
ted at  Mr.  Speedwell's  request)  was  the  one 
stranger  allowed  to  pass  the  door.  At  the  mo- 
ment when  he  was  ascending  the  steps,  some 
one  touched  his  arm.  It  was  Captain  New- 
enden, 

"Do  the  doctors  answer  for  his  life?"  asked 
the  captain.  "I  can't  get  my  niece  to  leave  the 
ground  till  she  is  satisfied  of  that." 

Mr.  Speedwell  heard  the  question,  and  replied 
to  it  briefly  from  the  top  of  the  pavilion  steps. 

"'For  the  present — yes,"  he  said. 

The  captain   thanked   him,  and  disappeared. 

They  entered  the  pavilion.  The  necessary- 
restorative  measures  were  taken  under  Mr. 
Speedwell's  directions.  There  the  conquered 
athlete  lay :  outwardly  an  inert  mass  of  strength, 
formidable  to  look  at,  even  in  its  fall;  inwardly, 
a  weaker  creature,  in  all  that  constitutes  vital 
force,  than  the  fly  that  buzzed  on  the  window- 
pane.  By  slow  degrees  the  fluttering  life  came 
back.  The  sun  was  setting;  and  the  evening 
light  was  beginning  to  fail.  Mr.  Speedwell 
beckoned  to  Perry  to  follow  him  into  an  unoc- 
cupied corner  of  the  room. 

"In  half  an  hour  or  less  he  wiU  be  well  enough 
to  be  taken  home.  "Where  are  his  friends?  He 
has  a  brother — hasn't  he?" 

"His  brother's  in  Scotland,  sir." 

"His  father?" 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  147 

Perry  scratched  his  head.  "From  all  I  hear, 
sir,  he  and  his  father  don't  agree." 

Mr.  Speedwell  applied  to  Sir  Patrick. 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  his  family  affairs?" 

"Very  little.  I  believe  what  the  man  has  told 
you  to  be  the  truth." 

"Is  his  mother  living?" 

"Yes." 

"I  will  write  to  her  myself.  In  the  mean- 
time, somebody  must  take  him  home.  He  has 
plenty  of  friends  here.     Where  are  they?" 

He  looked  out  of  the  window  as  he  spoke.  A 
throng  of  people  had  gathered  round  the  pavilion, 
waiting  to  hear  the  latest  news.  Mr.  Speedwell 
directed  Perry  to  go  out  and  search  among  them 
for  any  friends  of  his  employer  whom  he  might 
know  by  sight.  Perry  hesitated,  and  scratched 
his  head  for  the  second  time. 

"What  are  you  waiting  for?"  asked  the  sur 
geon,  sharply.  "You  know  his  friends  by  sight, 
don't  you?" 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  find  them  outside,"  said 
Perry. 

"Why  not?" 

"They  backed  him  heavily,  sir — and  they 
have  all  lost." 

Deaf  to  this  unanswerabL?  reason  for  the  ab- 
sence of  friends,  Mr.  Speedwell  insisted  on  send- 
ing Perry  out  to  search  among  the  persons  who 
composed  the  crowd.  The  trainer  returned  with 
his  report.  "You  were  right,  sir.  There  are 
some  of  his  friends  outside.  They  want  to  see 
him," 


148  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"Let  two  or  three  of  them  in." 

Three  came  in.  They  stared  at  him.  They 
uttered  brief  expressions  of  pity  in  slang.  The}' 
said  to  Mr.  Speedwell,  "We  wanted  to  see  him. 
What  is  it— eh?" 

"It's  a  break-down  in  his  health," 

"Bad  training?" 

"Athletic  Sports." 

"Oh!     Thank  you.     Good-evening." 

Mr.  Speedwell's  answer  drove  them  out  Hke  a 
flock  of  sheep  before  a  dog.  There  was  not  even 
time  to  put  the  question  to  them  as  to  who  was 
to  take  him  home, 

"I'll  look  after  him,  sir,"  said  Perry.  "You 
can  trust  me." 

"I'U  go,  too,"  added  the  trainer's  doctor; 
"and  see  him  littered  down  for  the  night." 

(The  only  two  men  who  ha.d  "hedged  "  their 
bets,  by  privately  backing  his  opponent,  were 
also  the  only  two  men  who  volunteered  to  take 
him  home !) 

They  went  back  to  the  sofa  on  which  he  was 
lying.  His  bloodshot  ej'es  were  rolling  heavily 
and  vacantly  about  him,  on  the  search  for  some- 
thing. They  rested  on  the  doctor — and  looked 
away  again.  They  turned  to  Mr.  Speedwell — 
and  stopped,  riveted  on  his  face.  The  surgeon 
bent  over  him,  and  said,  "What  is  it?" 

He  answered  with  a  thick  accent  and  laboring 
breath — uttering  a  word  at  a  time:  "Shall — I — 
die?" 

"I  hope  not." 

"Sure?" 


MAN   AND   WIFE,  149 

"No." 

He  looked  round  him  again.  This  time  his 
eyes  rested  on  the  trainer.    Perry  came  forward. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  sir?" 

The  reply  came  slowly,  as  before.  "My — coat 
— pocket. ' ' 

"This  one,  sir?" 

"No." 

"This?" 

"Yes.     Book." 

The  trainer  felt  in  the  pocket,  and  produced  a 
betting-book. 

"What's  to  be  done  with  this,  sir?" 

"Read." 

The  trainer  held  the  book  before  him ;  open  at 
the  last  two  pages  on  which  entries  had  been 
made.  He  rolled  his  head  impatiently  from  side 
to  side  of  the  sofa  pillow.  It  was  plain  that  he 
was  not  yet  sufficiently  recovered  to  be  able  to 
read  what  he  had  written. 

"Shall  I  read  for  you,  sir?" 

"Yes." 

The  trainer  read  three  entries,  one  after  an- 
other, without  result ;  they  had  all  been  honestly 
settled.  At  the  fourth  the  prostrate  man  said, 
"Stop!"  This  was  the  first  of  the  entries  which 
still  depended  on  a  future  event.  It  recorded  the 
wager  laid  at  Windygates,  when  Geoffrej^  had 
backed  himself  (in  defiance  of  the  surgeon's 
opinion)  to  row  in  the  University  boat-race  next 
spring — and  had  forced  Arnold  Brinkv/orth  to 
bet  against  him« 

"Well,  sir?     What's  to  be  done  about  this?" 


150  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

He  collected  his  strength  for  the  effort;  'and 
answered  hj  a  word  at  a  time. 

' '  Write  —  brother  —  Julius.  Pay  —  Arnold — 
wins.*' 

His  lifted  hand,  solemnly  emphasizing  what 
he  said,  dropped  at  his  side.  He  closed  his  eyes 
and  fell  into  a  heavy,  stertorous  sleep.  Give 
him  his  due.  Scoundrel  as  he  v/as,  give  him 
his  due.  The  awful  moment,  when  his  life  was 
trembling  in  the  balance,  found  him  true  to  the 
last  living  faith  left  among  the  men  of  his  tribe 
and  time — the  faith  of  the  betting-book. 

Sir  Patrick  and  Mr,  Speedwell  quitted  the 
race-ground  together;  Geoffrey  having  been 
previously  removed  to  his  lodgings  hard  by. 
The}^  met  Arnold  Brinkworth  at  the  gate.  He 
had,  by  his  own  desire,  kept  out  of  view  among 
the  crowd ;  and  he  decided  on  walking  back  by 
himself.  The  separation  from  Blanche  had 
changed  him  in  all  his  habits.  He  asked  but 
two  favors  during  the  interval  which  was  to 
elapse  before  he  saw  his  wife  again — to  be  al- 
lowed to  bear  it  in  his  own  way,  and  to  he  left 
alone. 

Relieved  of  the  oppression  which  had  kept 
him  silent  while  the  race  was  in  progress,  Sir 
Patrick  put  a  question  to  the  surgeon  as  they 
drove  home,  which  had  been  in  his  mind  from 
the  moment  when  Geoffrey  had  lost  the  day. 

'*I  hardly  understand  the  anxiet}'  5^ou  showed 
about  Delaniayn,"  he  said,  "when  you  found 
that  he  had  only  fainted  under  the  fatigue.   Was 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  151 

it  something  more  than  a  common  fainting- 
fit?" 

"It  is  useless  to  conceal  it  now, ' '  replied  Mr. 
Speedwell.  "He  has  had  a  narrow  escape  from 
a  paralj^tic  stroke." 

"Was  that  what  you  dreaded  when  you  spoke 
to  him  at  Windygates?" 

' '  That  was  what  I  saw  in  his  face  when  I  gave 
him  the  warning.  I  was  right,  so  far.  I  was 
wrong  in  my  estimate  of  the  reserve  of  vital 
power  left  in  him.  When  he  dropped  on  the  race- 
course, I  firmly  believed  we  should  find  him  a 
dead  man." 

"Is  it  hereditary  paralysis?  His  father's  last 
illness  was  of  that  sort. " 

Mr.  Speedwell  smiled.  "Hereditary  paraly- 
sis?" he  repeated.  "Why  the  man  is  (naturally) 
a  phenomenon  of  health  and  strength — in  the 
prime  of  his  life.  Hereditary  paralysis  might 
have  found  him  out  thirty  years  hence.  His 
rowing  and  his  running,  for  the  last  four  years, 
are  alone  answerable  for  what  has  happened  to- 
day." 

Sir  Patrick  ventured  on  a  suggestion. 

"Surely,"  he  said,  "with  your  name  to  com- 
pel attention  to  it,  you  ought  to  make  this  public 
— as  a  warning  to  others?" 

"It  would  be  quite  useless.  Delamayn  is  far 
from  being  the  first  ma.n  who  has  dropped  at 
foot-racing,  under  the  cruel  stress  laid  on  the 
vital  organs.  The  public  have  a  happy  knack  of 
forgetting  tnese  accidents.  They  would  be  quite 
satisfied  when  they  found  the  other  man  (who 


152  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

happens  to  have  got  through  it)  produced  as  a 
sufficient  answer  fco  me." 

Anne  Silvester's  future  was  still  dwelling  on 
Sir  Patrick's  mind.  His  next  inquiry  related  to 
the  serious  subject  of  Geoffrey's  prospect  of  re- 
covery in  the  time  to  come. 

"He  will  never  recover,"  said  Mr.  Speedwell. 
"Paralysis  is  hanging  over  him.  How  long  he 
may  live  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  say.  Much 
depends  on  himself.  In  his  condition,  any  new 
imprudence,  any  violent  emotion,  may  kill  him 
at  a  moment's  notice." 

"If  no  accident  happens,"  said  Sir  Patrick, 
"will  he  be  sufficiently  himself  again  to  leave 
his  bed  and  go  out?" 

"Certainly." 

"He  has  an  appointment  that  I  know  of  for 
Saturday  next.  Is  it  likely  that  he  will  be  able 
to  keep  it?" 

"Quite  likely." 

Sir  Patrick  said  no  more.  Anne's  face  was 
before  him  again  at  the  memorable  moment  when 
he  had  told  her  that  she  was  Geoffrey's  wife. 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  153 


FOURTEENTH  SCENE.— PORTLAND 
PLACE. 


CHAPTER  THE   FORTY-SIXTH. 

A    SCOTCH    MARRIAGE. 

It  was  Saturday,  the  third  of  October — the 
day  on  which  the  assertion  of  Arnold's  marriage 
to  Anne  Silvester  was  to  be  put  to  the  proof. 

Toward  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Blanche 
and  her  stepmother  entered  the  drawing-room  of 
Lady  Lundie's  town-house  in  Portland  Place. 

Since  the  previous  evening  the  weather  had 
altered  for  the  worse.  The  rain,  which  had  set 
in  from  an  early  hour  that  morning,  still  fell. 
Viewed  from  the  drawing-room  windows,  the 
desolation  of  Portland  Place  in  the  dead  season 
wore  its  aspect  of  deepest  gloom.  The  dreary 
opposite  houses  were  all  shut  up ;  the  black  mud 
was  inches  deep  in  the  roadway;  the  soot,  float- 
ing in  tin}^  black  particles,  mixed  with  the  fall- 
ing rain,  and  heightened  the  dirty  obscurity  of 
the  rising  mist.  Foot-passengers  and  vehicles, 
succeeding  each  other  at  rare  intervals,  left  great 
gaps  of  silence  absolutely  uninterrupted  by  sound. 
Even  the  grinders  of  organs  were  mute ;  and  the 
wandering  dogs  of  the  street  were  too  wet  to 
bark.  Looking  back  from  the  view  out  of  Lady 
Y(>\.  4  G— 


154  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Lunclie's  state  windows  to  the  view  in  Lady 
Lundie's  state  room,  the  melancholy  that  reigned 
without  was  more  than  matched  by  the  melan- 
choly that  reigned  within.  The  house  had  been 
shut  up  for  the  season :  it  had  not  been  consid- 
ered necessary,  during  its  mistress's  brief  visit, 
to  disturb  the  existing  state  of  things.  Coverings 
of  dim  brown  hue  shrouded  the  furniture.  The 
chandeliers  hung  invisible  in  enormous  bags. 
The  silent  clocks  hibernated  under  extinguishers 
dropped  over  them  two  months  since.  The  ta- 
bles, drawn  up  in  corners — loaded  with  orna- 
ments at  other  times — had  nothing  but  pen,  ink 
and  paper  (suggestive  of  the  coming  proceed- 
ings) placed  on  them  now.  The  smell  of  the 
house  was  musty;  the  voice  of  the  house  was 
still.  One  melancholy  maid  haunted  the  bed- 
rooms upstairs  like  a  ghost.  One  melancholy 
man,  appointed  to  admit  the  visitors,  sat  solitarj" 
in  the  lower  regions — the  last  of  the  flunkies, 
mouldering  in  an  extinct  servants'  hall.  Not 
a  word  passed,  in  the  drawing-room,  between 
Lady  Lundie  and  Blanche.  Each  waited  the 
appearance  of  the  persons  concerned  in  the  com- 
ing inquiry,  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts. 
Their  situation  at  the  moment  was  a  solemn  bur- 
lesque of  the  situation  of  two  ladies  who  are  giv- 
ing an  evening  part}'',  and  who  are  waiting  to 
receive  their  guests.  Did  neither  of  them  see 
this?  Or,  seeing  it,  did  they  shrink  from  ac- 
knowledging it?  In  similar  positions,  who  does 
not  shrink?  The  occasions  are  many  on  which 
we   have   excellent   reason   to  lauarh  when   the 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  155 

tears  are  in  our  eyes ;  but  only  children  are  bold 
enough  to  follow  the  impulse.  So  strangely,  in 
human  existence,  does  the  mockery  of  what  is 
serious  mingle  with  the  serious  reality  itself, 
that  nothing  but  our  own  self-respect  preserves 
our  gravity  at  some  of  the  most  important  emer- 
gencies in  our  lives.  The  two  ladies  waited  the 
coming  ordeal  together  gravely,  as  became  the 
occasion.  The  silent  maid  flitted  noiseless  up- 
stairs. The  silent  man  waited  motionless  in  the 
lower  regions.  Outside,  the  street  was  a  desert. 
Inside,  the  house  was  a  tomb. 

The  church  clock  struck  the  hour.     Two. 

At  the  same  moment  the  first  of  the  persons 
concerned  in  the  investigation  arrived. 

Lady  Lundie  waited  composedly  for  the  open- 
ing of  the  drawing-room  door.  Blanche  started, 
and  trembled.     Was  it  Arnold?     Was  it  Anne? 

The  door  opened,  and  Blanche  drew  a  breath 
of  relief.  The  first  arrival  was  only  Lady  Lun- 
die's  solicitor — invited  to  attend  the  proceedings 
on  her  ladyship's  behalf.  He  was  one  of  that 
large  class  of  purely  mechanical  and  perfectly 
mediocre  persons  connected  with  the  practice  of 
the  law  who  will  probably,  in  a  more  advanced 
state  of  science,  be  superseded  by  inachinery. 
He  made  himself  useful  in  altering  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  tables  and  chairs,  so  as  to  keep  the 
contending  parties  effectually  separated  from 
each  other.  He  also  entreated  Lady  Lundie  to 
bear  in  mind  that  he  knew  nothing  of  Scotch 
law,  and  that  he  was  there  in  the  capacity  of 
friend  only.    This  done,  he  sat  down,  and  looked 


156  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

out  with  silent  interest  at  the  rain — as  if  it  was 
an  operation  of  Nature  which  he  had  never  had 
an  opportunity  of  inspecting  before. 

The  next  knock  at  the  door  heralded  the  arri- 
val of  a  visitor  of  a  totally  different  order.  The 
melancholy  man-servant  announced  Captain 
Newenden. 

Possibly  in  deference  to  the  occasion,  possibly 
in  defiance  of  the  weather,  the  captain  had  taken 
another  backward  step  toward  the  days  of  his 
youth.  He  was  painted  and  padded,  wigged 
and  dressed,  to  represent  the  abstract  idea  of  a 
male  human  being  of  five-and-twenty  in  robust 
health.  There  might  have  been  a  little  stiffness 
in  the  region  of  the  waist,  and  a  slight  want  of 
firmness  in  the  eyelid  and  the  chin.  Otherwise 
there  was  the  fiction  of  five-and-twenty,  founded 
in  appearance  on  the  fact  of  five-and -thirty — 
with  the  truth  invisible  behind  it,  counting  sev- 
enty years !  "Wearing  a  flower  in  his  buttonhole, 
and  carrying  a  jaunty  little  cane  in  his  hand — 
brisk,  rosy,  smiling,  perfumed — the  captain's 
appearance  brightened  the  dreary  room.  It  was 
pleasantly  suggestive  of  a  morning  visit  from 
an  idle  young  man.  He  appeared  to  be  a  little 
surprised  to  find  Blanche  present  on  the  scene  of 
approaching  conflict.  Lady  Lundie  thought  it 
due  to  herself  to  explain.  "My  stepdaughter  is 
here  in  direct  defiance  of  my  entreaties  and  my 
advice.  Persons  may  present  themselves  whom 
it  is,  in  my  opinion,  improper  she  should  see. 
Revelations  will  take  place  which  no  j^oung  wo- 
man, in  her  position,  should  hear.     She  insists 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  157 

on  it,  Captain  Nevveuden — and  I  am  obliged  to 
submit. ' ' 

The  captain  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
showed  his  beautiful  teeth. 

Blanche  was  far  too  deeply  interested  in  the 
coming  ordeal  to  care  to  defend  herself:  she 
looked  as  if  she  had  not  even  heard  what  her 
stepmother  had  said  of  her.  The  solicitor  re- 
mained absorbed  in  the  interesting  view  of  the 
falling  rain.  Lady  Lundie  asked  after  Mrs. 
Glenarm.  The  captain,  in  reply,  described  his 
niece's  anxiety  as  something — something — some- 
thing, in  short,  only  to  be  indicated  by  shaking 
his  ambrosial  curls  and  waving  his  jaunty  cane. 
Mrs.  Delamayn  was  staying  with  her  until  her 
uncle  returned  with  the  news.  And  where  was 
Julius?  Detained  in  Scotland  by  election  busi- 
ness. And  Lord  and  Lady  Holchester?  Lord 
and  Lady  Holchester  knew  nothing  about  it. 

There  was  another  knock  at  the  door.  Blanche's 
pale  face  turned  paler  still.  Was  it  Arnold? 
Was  it  Anne?  After  a  longer  delay  than  usual 
the  servant  announced  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn 
and  Mr.  Moy. 

Geoffrey,  slowly  entering  first,  saluted  the  two 
ladies  in  silence,  and  noticed  no  one  else.  The 
London  solicitor,  withdrawing  himself  for  a  mo- 
ment from  the  absorbing  prospect  of  the  rain, 
pointed  to  the  places  reserved  for  the  new-comer 
and  for  the  legal  adviser  whom  he  had  brought 
with  him.  Geoffrey  seated  himself,  without  so 
much  as  a  glance  round  the  room.  Leaning  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  he  vacantly  traced  patterns 


158  WORKS   OF   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

on  tne  carpet  with  his  chimsy  oaken  walking- 
stick.  Stolid  indifference  expressed  itself  in  his 
lowering  brow  and  his  loosely-hanging  mouth. 
The  loss  of  the  race,  and  the  circumstances  ac- 
companying it,  appeared  to  have  made  him  duller 
than  usual  and  heavier  than  usual — and  that 
was  all. 

Captain  Newenden,  approaching  to  speak  to 
him,  stopped  half  way,  hesitated,  thought  better 
of  it — and  addressed  himself  to  Mr.  Moy. 

Geoffrey's  legal  adviser— a  Scotchman  of  the 
ruddy,  ready  and  convivial  type — cordially  met 
the  advance.  He  announced,  in  reply  to  the 
captain's  inquiry,  that  the  witnesses  (Mrs.  Inch- 
bare  and  Bishopriggs)  were  waiting  below  until 
they  were  wanted,  in  the  housekeeper's  room. 
Had  there  been  any  difficulty  in  finding  them? 
Not  the  least.  Mrs.  Inchbare  was,  as  a  matter 
of  course,  at  her  hotel.  Inquiries  being  set  on 
foot  for  Bishopriggs,  it  appeared  that  he  and  the 
landlady  had  come  to  an  understanding,  and  that 
he  had  returned  to  his  old  post  of  head- waiter  at 
the  inn.  The  captain  and  Mr.  Moy  kept  up  the 
conversation  between  them,  thus  begun,  with 
unflagging  ease  and  spirit.  Theirs  were  the 
only  voices  heard  in  the  trying  interval  that 
elapsed  before  the  next  knock  was  heard  at  the 
door. 

At  last  it  came.  There  could  be  no  doubt  now 
as  to  the  persons  who  might  next  be  expected  to 
enter  the  room.  Lady  Lundie  took  her  step- 
daughter firmly  by  the  hand.  She  was  not  sure 
of  what  Blanche's  first  impulse  might  lead  her 


MAN    AND    WIPE.  ],^9 

to  do.  For  the  first  time  in  her  Hfe,  Blanche 
left  her  hand  willingly  in  her  stepmother's 
grasp. 

The  door  opened,  and  they  came  in. 

Sir  Patrick  Lundie  entered  first,  with  Anne 
Silvester  on  his  arm.  Arnold  Brinkworth  fol- 
lowed them. 

Both  Sir  Patrick  and  Anne  bowed  in  silence  to 
the  persons  assembled.  Lady  Lundie  ceremoni- 
ousl}^  returned  her  brother-in-law's  salute,  and 
pointedly  abstained  from  noticing  Anne's  pres- 
ence in  the  room.  Blanche  never  looked  up. 
Arnold  advanced  to  her,  with  his  hand  held  out. 
Lady  Lundie  rose,  and  motioned  him  back. 
"Not  yet,  Mr.  Brinkworth!  "  she  said,  in  her 
most  quietl}^  merciless  manner.  Arnold  stood, 
heedless  of  her,  looking  at  his  wife.  His  wife 
lifted  her  eyes  to  his;  the  tears  rose  in  them  on 
the  instant.  Arnold's  dark  complexion  turned 
ashy  pale  under  the  effort  tha.t  it  cost  him  to 
command  himself.  "I  won't  distress  you,"  he 
said,  gently — and  turned  back  again  to  the  table 
at  which  Sir  Patrick  and  Anne  were  seated  to- 
gether, apart  from  the  rest.  Sir  Patrick  took  his 
hand,  and  pressed  it  in  silent  approval. 

The  one  person  who  took  no  part,  even  as 
spectator,  in  the  events  that  followed  the  appear- 
ance of  Sir  Patrick  and  his  companions  in  the 
room — was  Geoffre}'.  The  only  change  visible 
in  him  was  a  change  in  the  handling  of  his 
walking-stick.  Instead  of  tracing  patterns  on 
the  carpet,  it  beat  a  tattoo.  For  the  rest,  there 
he  sat  with  his  heavy  head  on  his  breast  and  his 


160  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

brawny  arms  on  his  knees — weary  of  it  by  antici- 
pation before  it  had  begun. 

Sir  Patrick  broke  the  silence.  He  addressed 
himself  to  his  sister-in-law. 

"Lady  Lundie,  are  all  the  persons  present 
whom  you  expected  to  see  here  to-day?" 

The  gathered  venom  in  Lady  Lundie  seized 
the  opportunity  of  planting  its  first  sting. 

"All  whom  I  expected  are  here,"  she  an- 
swered. "And  more  than  I  expected,"  she 
added,  with  a  look  at  Anne. 

The  look  was  not  returned — was  not  even 
seen.  From  the  moment  when  she  had  taken 
her  place  by  Sir  Patrick,  Anne's  eyes  had  rested 
on  Blanche.  They  never  moved — they  never  for 
an  instant  lost  their  tender  sadness — when  the 
woman  who  hated  her  spoke.  All  that  was  beau- 
tiful and  true  in  that  noble  nature  seemed  to  find 
its  one  sufficient  encouragement  in  Blanche.  As 
she  looked  once  more  at  the  sister  of  the  unfor- 
gotten  days  of  old,  its  native  beauty  of  expres- 
sion shone  out  again  in  her  worn  and  weary  face. 
Every  man  in  the  room  (but  Geoffi'ey)  looked  at 
her;  and  every  man  (but  Geoffrey)  felt  for  her. 

Sir  Patrick  addressed  a  second  question  to  his 
sister-in-law. 

"Is  there  any  one  here  to  represent  the  inter- 
ests of  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn?"  he  asked. 

Lady  Lundie  referred  Sir  Patrick  to  Geoffrey 
himself.  Without  looking  up,  Geoffrey  motioned 
with  his  big  brown  hand  to  Mr.  Moy,  sitting  by 
his  side. 

Mr.  Moj'  (holding  the  legal  rank  in  Scotland 


MA.N   AND    WIFE.  Ifjl 

which  corresponds  to  the  rank  held  by  solicitors 
in  England)  rose  and  bowed  to  Sir  Patrick,  with 
the  courtesy  due  to  a  man  eminent  in  his  time  at 
.the  Scottish  Bar. 

"I  represent  Mr.  Delamayn, "  he  said.  "I 
congratulate  myself,  Sir  Patrick,  on  having  your 
ability  and  experience  to  appeal  to  in  the  con- 
duct of  the  pending  inquiry. ' ' 

Sir  Patrick  returned  the  compliment  as  well 
as  the  bow. 

"  It  is  I  who  should  learn  from  you, ' '  he  an- 
swered. "J  have  had  time,  Mr.  Moy,  to  forget 
what  I  once  knew." 

Lady  Lundie  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
with  unconcealed  impatience  as  these  formal 
courtesies  were  exchanged  between  the  lawyers. 
"Allow  me  to  remind  you,  gentlemen,  of  the  sus- 
pense that  we  are  suffering  at  this  end  of  the 
room,"  she  said;  "and  permit  me  to  ask  when 
you  propose  to  begin?" 

Sir  Patrick  looked  invitingly  at  Mr.  Moy. 
Mr.  Moy  looked  invitingly  at  Sir  Patrick.  More 
formal  courtesies !  a  polite  contest  this  time  as  to 
which  of  the  two  learned  gentlemen  should  per- 
mit the  other  to  speak  first !  Mr.  Moy's  mod- 
esty proving  to  be  quite  immovable,  Sir  Patrick 
ended  it  by  opening  the  proceedings. 

"I  am  here,"  he  said,  "to  act  on  behalf  of  my 
friend,  Mr.  Arnold  Brink  worth.  I  beg  to  pre- 
sent him  to  you,  Mr.  Moy,  as  the  husband  of  my 
niece — ^to  whom  he  was  lawfully"  married  on  the 
seventh  of  September  last,  at  the  Church  of  Saint 
Margaret,  in  the  parish  of  Hawley,    Kent.      I 


162  WORKS   OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

have  a  copy  of  the  marriage  certificate  here — if 
you  wish  to  look  at  it." 

Mr.  Moy's  modesty  declined  to  look  at  it. 

"Quite  needless,  Sir  Patrick!  1  admit  that 
a  marriage  ceremony  took  place  on  the  date 
named,  between  the  persons  named;  but  I  con- 
tend that  it  was  not  a  valid  marriage.  I  say, 
on  behalf  of  my  client  here  present  (Mr.  Geoffrey 
Delamayn),  that  Arnold  Brink  worth  was  mar- 
ried at  a  date  prior  to  the  seventh  of  September 
last — namely,  on  the  fourteenth  of  August  in 
this  year,  and  at  a  place  called  Craig  Fernie,  in 
Scotland — to  a  lady  named  Anne  Silvester,  now 
living,  and  present  among  us  (as  I  understand) 
at  this  moment." 

Sir  Patrick  presented  Anne.  "This  is  the 
lady,  Mr.  Moy." 

Mr.  Moy  bowed,  and  made  a  suggestion.  "To 
save  needless  formalities.  Sir  Patrick,  shall  we 
take  the  question  of  identity  as  established  on 
both  sides?" 

Sir  Patrick  agreed  with  his  learned  friend. 
Lady  Lundie  opened  and  shut  her  fan  in  undis- 
guised impatience.  The  London  solicitor  was 
deeply  interested.  Captain  Newenden,  taking 
out  his  handkerchief,  and  using  it  as  a  screen, 
yawned  behind  it  to  his  heart's  content.  Sir 
Patrick  resumed. 

"You  assert  the  prior  marriage,"  he  said  to 
his  colleague.     "It  rests  with  you  to  begin." 

Mr.  Moy  cast  a  preliminary  look  around  him 
at  the  persons  assembled. 

"The  object  of  our  meeting  here,"  he  said. 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  1  03 

■'is,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  of  a  twofold  nature. 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  thought  desirable,  by  a 
person  who  has  a  special  interest  in  the  issue  of 
this  inquiry"  (he  glanced  at  the  captain — the 
captain  suddenly  became  attentive),  "to  put  my 
client's  assertion,  relating  to  Mr.  Brinkworth's 
marriage,  to  the  proof.  In  the  second  place,  we 
are  all  equally  desirous — whatever  difference  of 
opinion  may  otherwise  exist — to  make  this  in- 
formal inquiry  a  means,  if  possible,  of  avoiding 
the  painful  publicity  which  would  result  from  an 
appeal  to  a  Court  of  Law." 

At  those  words  the  gathered  venom  in  Lady 
Lundie  planted  its  second  sting — under  cover  of 
a  pix)test  addressed  to  Mr.  Moy. 

"I  beg  to  inform  you,  sir,  on  behalf  of  my 
stepdaughter,"  she  said,  "that  We  have  nothing 
to  dread  from  the  widest  publicity.  We  consent 
to  be  present  at,  what  you  call,  'this  informal 
inquiry, '  reserving  our  right  to  carry  the  matter 
beyond  the  four  walls  of  this  room.  I  am  not 
referring  now  to  Mr.  Brinkworth's  chance  of 
clearing  himself  from  an  odiovis  suspicion  which 
rests  upon  him  and  upon  another  Pereon  present. 
That  is  an  after-matter.  The  object  immediately 
before  us — so  far  as  a  woman  can  pretend  to  un- 
derstand it — is  to  establish  my  stepdaughter's 
right  to  call  Mr.  Brinkworth  to  account  in  the 
character  of  his  wife.  If  the  r-esult,  so  far,  fails 
to  satisfy  us  in  that  particular,  we  shall  not  hesi- 
tate to  appeal  to  a  Court  of  Law. ' '  She  leaned 
back  in  her  chair,  and  opened  her  fan,  and  looked 
round  her  with  the  air  of  a  woman  who  called 


104  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

society  to  witness  that  she  had  done  her 
duty. 

An  expression  of  pain  crossed  Blanche's  face 
while  her  stepmother  was  speaking.  Lady  Lun- 
die  took  her  hand  for  the  second  time.  Blanche 
resolutely  and  pointedly  withdrew  it — Sir  Pat- 
rick noticing  the  action  with  special  interest. 
Before  Mr.  Moy  could  say  a  word  in  answer, 
Arnold  centered  the  general  attention  on  him- 
self by  suddenly  interfering  in  the  proceedings. 
Blanche  looked  at  him.  A  bright  flush  of  color 
appeared  on  her  face — and  left  it  again.  Sir 
Patrick  noted  the  change  of  color — and  observed 
her  more  attentively  than  ever.  Arnold's  letter 
to  his  wife,  with  time  to  help  it,  had  plainly 
shaken  her  ladyship's  influence  over  Blanche. 

"After  what  Lady  Lundie  has  said,  in  my 
wife's  presence,"  Arnold  burst  out,  in  his 
straightforward,  boyish  way,  "I  think  I  ought 
to  be  allowed  to  say  a  word  on  my  side.  I  only 
want  to  explain  how  it  was  I  came  to  go  to 
Craig  Fernie  at  all — and  I  challenge  Mr.  Geof- 
frey Delamayn  to  deny  it,  if  he  can. ' ' 

His  voice  rose  at  the  last  words,  and  his  eyes 
brightened  with  indignation  as  he  looked  at 
Geoffrey. 

Mr.  Moy  appealed  to  his  learned  friend. 

"With  submission,  Sir  Patrick,  to  your  better 
judgment,"  he  said,  "this  young  gentleman's 
proposal  seems  to  be  a  little  out  of  place  at  the 
present  stage  of  the  proceedings." 

"Pardon  me,"  answered  Sir  Patrick.  "You 
have  yourself  described  the  proceedings  as  repre- 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  105 

senting  an  informal  inquiiy.  An  informal  pro- 
posal— with  submission  to  your  better  judgment, 
Mr.  Moy — is  hardly  out  of  place,  under  those 
circumstances,  is  it?" 

Mr.  Moy's  inexhaustible  modesty  gave  way 
without  a  struggle.  The  answer  which  he  re- 
ceived had  the  effect  of  puzzling  him  at  the  out- 
set of  the  investigation.  A  man  of  Sir  Patrick's 
experience  must  have  known  that  Arnold's  mere 
assertion  of  his  own  innocence  could  be  produc- 
tive of  nothing  but  useless  delay  in  the  proceed- 
ings. And  yet  he  sanctioned  that  delay.  Was 
he  privately  on  the  watch  for  any  accidental  cir- 
cumstance which  might  help  hiin  to  better  a 
case  that  he  knew  to  be  a  bad  one? 

Permitted  to  speak,  Arnold  spoke.  The  un- 
mistakable accent  of  truth  was  in  every  word 
that  he  uttered.  He  gave  a  fairly  coherent  ac- 
count of  events,  from  the  time  when  Geoffrey 
had  claimed  his  assistance  at  the  lawn-party  to 
the  time  when  he  found  himself  at  the  door  of 
the  inn  at  Craig  Fernie.  There  Sir  Patrick  in- 
terfered, and  closed  his  lips.  He  asked  leave  to 
appeal  to  Geoffrey  to  confirm  him.  Sir  Patrick 
amazed  Mr.  Moy  by  sanctioning  this  irregular- 
ity also.  Arnold  sternly  addressed  himself  to 
Geoffrey. 

"Do  you  deny  that  what  I  have  said  is  true?" 
he  asked. 

Mr.  Moy  did  his  duty  by  his  client.  "You 
are  not  bound  to  answer,"  he  said,  "unless  you 
wish  it  yourself. ' ' 

Geoffrey  slowly  lifted  his  heavy  head,  and  con- 


in 6  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

fronted  the  man  whom  he  had  betrayed.  "I 
deny  every  word  of  it,"  he  answered — with 
a  stolid  defiance  of  tone  and  manner. 

"Have  we  had  enough  of  assertion  and  coun- 
ter-assertion, Sir  Patrick,  by  this  time?"  asked 
Mr.  Moy,  with  undiminished  politeness. 

After  first  forcing  Arnold — with  some  little 
difficulty — to  control  himself,  Sir  Patrick  raised 
Mr.  Moy's  astonishment  to  the  culminating 
point.  For  reasons  of  his  own,  he  determined 
to  strengthen  the  favorable  impression  which 
Arnold's  statement  had  plainly  produced  on  his 
wife  before  the  inquiry  proceeded  a  step  further. 

"I  must  throw  mj^self  on  your  indulgence,  Mr. 
Moy,"  he  said.  "I  have  not  had  enough  of  as- 
sertion and  counter-assertion,  even  yet." 

Mr.  Moy  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  a 
mixed  expression  of  bewilderment  and  resigna- 
tion. Either  his  colleague's  intellect  was  in  a 
failing  state,  or  his  colleague  had  some  purpose 
in  view  which  had  not  openly  asserted  itself  yet. 
He  began  to  suspect  that  the  right  reading  of 
the  riddle  was  involved  in  the  latter  of  those  two 
alternatives.  Instead  of  entering  anj-  fresh  pro- 
test, he  wisely  waited  and  watched. 

Sir  Patrick  went  on  unblushingly  from  one 
irregularity  to  another. 

"I  request  Mr.  Moy's  permission  to  revert  to 
the  alleged  marriage,  on  the  fourteenth  of  Au- 
gust, at  Craig  Fernie,"  he  said.  "Arnold 
Brinkworth!  answer  for  yourself,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  persons  here  assembled.  In  all  that 
you  said,  and  all  that  you  did,  while  you  were 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  I(i7 

at  the  inn,  were  you  not  solely  influenced  by  the 
wish  to  make  Miss  Silvester's  position  as  little 
painful  to  her  as  possible,  and  by  anxiety  to  carry 
out  the  instructions  given  to  you  by  Mr.  Geof- 
frey Delamayn?     Is  that  the  whole  truth?" 

"That  is  the  whole  truth,  Sir  Patrick." 

"On  the  day  when  you  went  to  Craig  Fernie, 
had  you  not,  a  few  hours  previously,  applied  for 
my  permission  to  marry  my  niece?" 

"I  applied  for  your  permission.  Sir  Patrick, 
and  you  gave  it  me?" 

"From  the  moment  when  you  entered  the  inn 
to  the  moment  when  you  left  it,  were  you  abso- 
lutely innocent  of  the  slightest  intention  to  marry 
Miss  Silvester?" 

"No  Such  thing  as  the  thought  of  marrying 
Miss  Silvester  ever  entered  my  head. ' ' 

"And  this  you  say,  on  your  word  of  honor  as 
a  gentleman?" 

"On  my  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman." 

Sir  Patrick  turned  to  Anne. 

"Was  it  a  matter  of  necessity.  Miss  Silvester, 
that  you  should  appear  in  the  assumed  character 
of  a  married  woman— on  the  fourteenth  of  Au- 
gust last,  at  the  Craig  Fernie  inn?" 

Anne  looked  away  from  Blanche  for  the  first 
time.  She  replied  to  Sir  Patrick  quietly,  readily, 
firmly — Blanche  looking  at  her,  and  listening  to 
her  with  eager  interest. 

"I  went  to  the  inn  alone,  Sir  Patrick.  The 
landlady  refused,  in  the  plainest  terms,  to  let  me 
stay  there  unless  she  was  first  satisfied  that  I 
was  a  married  woman. ' ' 


168  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"Which  of  the  two  gentlemen  did  you  expect 
to  join  you  at  the  inn — Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth, 
or  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn?" 

"Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn." 

"When  Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth  came  in  his 
place,  and  said  what  was  necessary  to  satisfy 
the  scruples  of  the  landlady,  you  understood 
that  he  was  acting  in  your  interests,  from  mo- 
tives of  kindness  only,  and  under  the  instruc- 
tions of  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn?" 

"I  understood  that;  and  I  objected  as  strongly 
as  I  could  to  Mr.  Brinkworth  placing  himself  in 
a  false  position  on  my  account." 

"Did  your  objection  proceed  from  any  knowl- 
edge of  the  Scottish  law  of  marriage,  and  of  the 
position  in  which  the  peculiarities  of  that  law 
might  place  Mr.  Brinkworth?" 

"I  had  no  knowledge  of  the  Scottish  law.  I 
had  a  vague  dislike  and  dread  of  the  deception 
which  Mr.  Brinkworth  was  practicing  on  the 
people  of  the  inn.  And  I  feared  that  it  might 
lead  to  some  possible  misinterpretation  of  me  on 
the  part  of  a  person  whom  I  dearly  loved. ' ' 

"That  person  being  my  niece?" 

"Yes." 

"You  appealed  to  Mr.  Brinkworth  (knowing 
of  his  attachment  to  my  niece),  in  her  name,  and 
for  her  sake,  to  leave  you  to  shift  for  yourself?" 

"I  did." 

"As  a  gentleman  who  had  given  his  promise 
to  help  and  protect  a  lady,  in  the  absence  of  the 
person  whom  she  had  depended  on  to  join  her, 
he  refused  to  leave  you  to  shift  for  yourself?" 


MAN  AND  Wife.  169 

"Unhappily,  he  refused  on  that  account." 

"From  first  to  last  you  were  absolutely  inno- 
cent of  the  slightest  intention  to  marry  Mr. 
Brinkworth?" 

"I  answer,  Sir  Patrick,  as  Mr.  Brink v/orth has 
answered.  No  such  thing  as  the  thought  of  mar- 
rying him  ever  entered  my  head. ' ' 

"And  this  you  say,  on  your  oath  as  a  Chris- 
tian woman?" 

"On  my  oath  as  a  Christian  woman." 

Sir  Patrick  looked  round  at  Blanche.  Her 
face  was  hidden  in  her  hands.  Her  stepmother 
was  vainly  appealing  to  her  to  compose  herself. 

In  the  moment  of  silence  that  followed,  Mr. 
Moy  interfered  in  the  interests  of  his  client. 

"I  waive  my  claim,  Sir  Patrick,  to  put  any 
questions  on  my  side.  I  merely  desire  to  remind 
you,  and  to  remind  the  company  present,  that  all 
that  we  have  just  heard  is  mere  assertion — on 
the  part  of  two  persons  strongly  interested  in  ex- 
tricating themselves  from  a  position  which  fatally 
compromises  them  both.  The  marriage  which 
they  deny  I  am  now  waiting  to  prove — not  by 
assertion,  on  my  side,  but  by  appeal  to  compe- 
tent witnesses." 

After  a  brief  consultation  with  her  own  solici- 
tor. Lady  Lundie  followed  Mr.  Moy,  in  stronger 
language  still. 

"I  wish  you  to  understand.  Sir  Patrick,  before 
you  proceed  any  further,  that  I  shall  remove 
my  stepdaughter  from  the  room  if  any  more 
attempts  are  made  to  harrow  her  feelings  and 
mislead  her  judgment.     I  want  words  to  express 


170  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

my  sense  of  this  most  cruel  and  unfair  way  of 
conducting  the  inquiry." 

The  London  lawyer  followed,  stating  his  pro- 
fessional approval  of  his  client's  view.  "As  her 
ladyship's  legal  adviser, "  he  said,  "I  support  the 
protest  which  her  ladyship  has  just  made." 

Even  Captain  Newenden  agreed  in  the  general 
disapproval  of  Sir  Patrick's  conduct.  "Hear, 
hear!"  said  the  captain,  when  the  lawyer  had 
spoken.  "Quite  right.  I  must  say,  quite 
right." 

Apparently  impenetrable  to  all  due  sense  of 
his  position,  Sir  Patrick  addressed  himself  to 
Mr.  Moy,  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

' '  Do  you  wish  to  produce  your  witnesses  at 
once?"  he  asked.  "I  have  not  the  least  objec- 
tion to  meet  your  views — on  the  understanding 
that  I  am  permitted  to  return  to  the  proceedings 
as  interrupted  at  this  point." 

Mr.  Moy  considered.  The  adversary  (there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  it  by  this  time)  had  some- 
thing in  reserve — and  the  adversary  had  not  yet 
shown  his  hand.  It  was  mpre  immediately  im- 
portant to  lead  him  into  doing  this  than  to  insist 
on  rights  and  privileges  of  the  purely  formal 
sort.  Nothing  could  shake  the  strength  of  the 
position  which  Mr.  Moy  occupied.  The  longer 
Sir  Patrick's  irregularities  delayed  the  proceed- 
ings, the  more  irresistibly  the  plain  facts  of  the 
case  would  assert  themselves — with  all  the  force 
of  contrast — out  of  the  mouths  of  the  witnesses 
who  were  in  attendance  downstairs.  He  deter- 
mined to  wait. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  171 

"Reserving  my  right  of  objection,  Sir  Pat- 
rick," he  answered,  "I  beg  you  to  go  on." 

To  the  surprise  of  everybody,  Sir  Patrick  ad- 
dressed himself  directly  to  Blanche — quoting  the 
language  in  which  Lady  Lundie  had  spoken  to 
him,  with  perfect  composure  of  tone  and  manner. 

*'You  know  me  well  enough,  my  dear,"  he 
said,  "to  be  assured  that  I  am  incapable  of  will- 
ingly harrowing  your  feelings  or  misleading  your 
judgment.  I  have  a  question  to  ask  you,  which 
you  can  answer  or  not,  entirely  as  you  please." 

Before  he  could  put  the  question  there  was  a 
momentary  contest  between  Lady  Lundie  and 
her  legal  adviser.  Silencing  her  ladyship  (not 
without  difficulty),  the  London  lawyer  inter- 
posed. He  also  begged  leave  to  reserve  the 
right  of  objection,  so  far  as  his  client  was  con- 
cerned. 

Sir  Patrick  assented  by  a  sign,  and  proceeded 
to  put  his  question  to  Blanche. 

"You  have  heard  what  Arnold  Brinkworth 
has  said,  and  what  Miss  Silvester  has  said,"  he 
resumed.  "The  husband  who  loves  you,  and 
the  sisterly  friend  who  loves  you,  have  each 
made  a  solemn  declaration.  Recall  your  past 
experience  of  both  of  them ;  remember  what  they 
have  just  said;  and  now  tell  me — do  you  believe 
they  have  spoken  falsely?" 

Blanche  answered  on  the  instant. 

"I  believe,  uncle,  they  have  spoken  the  truth!" 

Both  the  lawyers  registered  their  objections. 
Lady  Lundie  made  another  attempt  to  speak, 
and  was  stopped  once  more — this  time  by  Mr. 


172  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Moy  as  well  as  by  her  own  adviser.  Sir  Patrick 
went  on. 

"Do  you  feel  any  doubt  as  to  the  entire  pro- 
priety of  your  husband's  conduct  and  your 
friend's  conduct,  now  you  have  seen  them  and 
heard  them,  face  to  face?" 

Blanche  answered  again,  with  the  same  ab- 
sence of  reserve. 

"I  ask  them  to  forgive  me,"  she  said.  "I  be- 
lieve  I  have  done  them  both  a  great  wrong." 

She  looked  at  her  husband  first  —  then  at 
Anne.  Arnold  attempted  to  leave  his  chair. 
Sir  Patrick  firmly  restrained  him.  "Wait!"  he 
whispered.  "You  don't  know  what  is  coming." 
Having  said  that,  he  turned  toward  Anne. 
Blanche's  look  had  gone  to  the  heart  of  the  faith- 
ful woman  who  loved  her.  Anne's  face  was 
turned  away — the  tears  were  forcing  themselves 
through  the  worn,  weak  hands  that  tried  vainly 
to  hide  them. 

The  formal  objections  of  the  lawyers  were  reg- 
istered once  more.  Sir  Patrick  addressed  himself 
to  his  niece  for  the  last  time. 

"You  believe  what  Arnold  Brinkworth  has 
said ;  you  believe  what  Miss  Silvester  has  said. 
You  know  that  not  even  the  thought  of  mar- 
riage was  in  the  mind  of  either  of  them  at  the 
inn.  You  know — whatever  else  may  happen  in 
the  future — that  there  is  not  the  most  remote 
possibility  of  either  of  them  consenting  to  ac- 
knowledge that  they  ever  have  been,  or  ever  can 
be,  Man  and  Wife.  Is  that  enough  for  you? 
Are  you  willing,  before  this  inquiry  proceeds 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  173 

any  further,  to  take  your  husband's  hand;  tcr 
return  to  your  husband's  protection;  and  to 
leave  the  rest  to  me — satisfied  with  my  assur- 
ance that,  on  the  facts  as  they  happened,  not 
even  the  Scotch  Law  can  prove  the  monstrous 
assertion  of  the  marriage  at  Craig  Fernie  to  be 
true?" 

Lady  Lundie  rose.  Both  the  lawyers  rose. 
Arnold  sat  lost  in  astonishment.  Geoffrey  him- 
self— brutishly  careless  thus  far  of  all  that  had 
passed — -lifted  his  head  with  a  sudden  start.  In 
the  midst  of  the  profound  impression  thus  pro- 
duced, Blanche,  on  whose  decision  the  whole 
future  course  of  the  inquiry  now  turned,  an- 
swered in  these'  words : 

"I  hope  you  will  not  think  me  ungrateful, 
uncle.  I  am  sure  that  Arnold  has  not  knowingly 
done  me  any  wrong.  But  I  can't  go  back  to  him 
until  I  am  first  certain  that  I  am  his  wife." 

Lady  Lundie  embraced  her  stepdaughter,  with 
a  sudden  outburst  of  affection.  ' '  My  dear  child ! ' ' 
exclaimed  her  ladyship,  fervently.  "Well  done, 
my  own  dear  child!" 

Sir  Patrick's  head  dropped  on  his  breast. 
"Oh,  Blanche!  Blanche!"  Arnold  heard  him 
whisper  to  himself;  "if  you  only  knew  what  you 
are  forcing  me  to!" 

Mr.  Moy  put  in  his  word,  on  Blanche's  side  of 
the  question. 

"I  must  most  respectfully  express  my  approval 
also  of  the  course  which  the  young  lady  has 
taken,"  he  said.  "A  more  dangerous  compro- 
mise than  the  compromise  which  we  have  just 


174  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS, 

heard  suggested  it  is  difficult  to  imagine.  With 
all  deference  to  Sir  Patrick  Lundie,  his  opinion 
of  the  impossibility  of  proving  the  marriage  at 
Craig  Fernie  remains  to  be  confirmed  as  the 
right  one.  My  own  professional  opinion  is  op- 
posed to  it.  The  opinion  of  another  Scottish 
lawyer  (in  Glasgow)  is,  to  my  certain  knowl- 
edge, opposed  to  it.  If  the  young  lady  had  not 
acted  with  a  wisdom  and  courage  which  do  her 
honor,  she  might  have  lived  to  see  the  day  when 
her  reputation  would  have  been  destroyed,  and 
her  children  declared  illegitimate.  Who  is  to 
say  that  circumstances  may  not  hapnen  in  the 
future  which  may  force  Mr.  Brinkworth  or  Miss 
Silvester — one  or  the  other — to'  assert  the  very 
marriage  which  they  repudiate  now?  Who  is 
to  say  that  interested  relatives  (property  being- 
concerned  here)  may  not,  in  the  lapse  of  j^ears, 
discover  motives  of  their  own  for  questioning  the 
asserted  marriage  in  Kent?  I  acknowledge  that 
I  envy  the  immense  self-confidence  which  em- 
boldens Sir  Patrick  to  venture,  what  he  is  will- 
ing to  venture  upon  his  own  individual  opinion 
on  an  undecided  point  of  law." 

He  sat  down  amid  a  murmur  of  approval,  and 
cast  a  slyly-expectant  look  at  his  defeated  ad- 
versary. "If  that  doesn't  irritate  him  into 
showing  his  hand,"  thought  Mr.  Moy,  "nothing- 
will!" 

Sir  Patrick  slowly  raised  his  head.  Tliere  was 
no  irritation — there  was  only  distress  in  his  face 
— when  he  spoke  next. 

"I  don't  propose,  Mr.  Moy,  to  argue  the  point 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  175 

with  you,"  he  said,  gently.  "I  can  understajad 
that  my  conduct  must  necessarily  appear  strange 
and  even  blameworthy,  not  in  your  eyes  only, 
but  in  the  eyes  of  others.  My  young  friend  here 
will  tell  you"  (he  looked  toward  Arnold)  "that 
the  view  which  you  express  as  to  the  future 
peril  involved  in  this  case  was  once  the  view  in 
my  mind  too,  and  that  in  what  I  have  done  thus 
far  I  have  acted  in  direct  contradiction  to  advice 
which  I  mj'self  gave  at  no  very  distant  period. 
Excuse  me,  if  you  please,  from  entering  (for  the 
present  at  least)  into  the  motive  which  has  in- 
fluenced me  from  the  time  when  I  entered  this 
room.  My  position  is  one  of  unexampled  respon- 
sibility and  of  indescribable  distress.  May  I 
appeal  to  that  statement  to  stand  as  my  excuse, 
if  I  plead  for  a  last  extension  of  indulgence  to- 
ward the  last  irregularity  of  which  I  shall  be 
guilty,  in  connection  with  these  proceedings?'' 

Lady  Lundie  alone  resisted  the  unaffected  and 
touching  dignity  with  which  those  words  were 
spoken. 

' '  We  have  had  enough  of  irregularity, ' '  she 
said,  sternly.     "I,  for  one,  object  to  more." 

Sir  Patrick  waited  patiently  for  Mr.  Moy's  re- 
ply. The  Scotch  lawyer  and  the  English  lawyer 
looked  at  each  other — and  understood  each 
other.     Mr.  Moy  answered  for  both. 

"We  don't  presume  to  restrain  you.  Sir  Pat- 
rick, by  other  limits  than  those  which,  as  a  gen- 
tleman, you  impose  on  yourself .  Subject,"  added 
the  cautious  Scotchman,  "to  the  right  of  objec- 
tion which  we  have  already  reserved." 


176  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

."Do  you  object  to  mj^  speaking  to  your  cli- 
ent?" asked  Sir  Patrick. 

"To  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn?" 

"Yes." 

All  eyes  turned  on  Geoffrey.  He  was  sitting 
half  asleep,  as  it  seemed — with  his  heavy  hands 
hanging  listlessly  over  his  knees,  and  his  chin 
resting  on  the  hooked  handle  of  his  stick. 

Looking  toward  Anne,  when  Sir  Patrick  pro- 
nounced Geoffrey's  name,  Mr.  Moy  saw  a  change 
in  her.  She  withdrew  her  hands  from  her  face 
and  turned  suddenly  toward  her  legal  adviser. 
Was  she  in  the  secret  of  the  carefully  concealed 
object  at  which  his  opponent  had  been  aiming 
from  the  first?  Mr.  Moy  decided  to  put  that 
doubt  to  the  test.  He  invited  Sir  Patrick,  by  a 
gesture,  to  proceed.  Sir  Patrick  addressed  him- 
self to  Geoffrey. 

"  You  are  seriously  interested  in  this  inquiry, " 
he  said;  "and  you  have  taken  no  part  in  it  yet. 
Take  a  part  in  it  now.     Look  at  this  lady." 

Geoffrey  never  moved. 

"I've  seen  enough  of  her  already,"  he  said, 
brutally. 

"You  may  well  be  ashamed  to  look  at  her," 
said  Sir  Patrick,  quietly.  "But you  might  have 
acknowledged  it  in  fitter  words.  Carry  your 
memory  back  to  the  fourteenth  of  August.  Do 
you  deny  that  you  promised  to  marry  Miss  Sil- 
vester privately  at  the  Craig  Fernie  inn?" 

"I  object  to  that  question,"  said  Mr.  Moy. 
"My  client  is  under  no  sort  of  obligation  to  an- 
swer it." 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  177 

Geoffrey's  rising  temper — ready  to  resent  any- 
thing— resented  his  adviser's  interference.  "I 
shall  answer  if  I  like,"  he  retorted,  insolently. 
He  looked  up  for  a  moment  at  Sir  Patrick,  with- 
out moving  his  chin  from  the  hook  of  his  stick. 
Then  he  looked  down  again.  "I  do  deny  it,"  he 
said. 

"You  deny  that  you  have  promised  to  marry 
Miss  Silvester?" 

"Yes." 

"I  asked  you  just  now  to  look  at  her — " 

"And  I  told  you  I  had  seen  enough  of  her  al- 
ready. ' ' 

"Look  at  me.  In  my  presence,  and  in  the 
presence  of  the  other  persons  here,  do  you  deny 
that  j^ou  owe  this  lady,  by  your  own  solemn  en- 
gagement, the  reparation  of  marriage?" 

He  suddenly  lifted  his  head.  His  eyes,  after 
resting  for  an  instant  only  on  Sir  Patrick,  turned, 
little  by  little,  and,  brightening  slowly,  fixed 
themselves  with  a  hideous,  tigerish  glare  on 
Anne's  face.  "I  know  what  I  owe  her,"  he 
said. 

The  devouring  hatred  of  his  look  was  matched 
by  the  ferocious  vindictiveness  of  his  tone,  as  he 
spoke  those  words.  It  was  horrible  to  see  him ; 
it  was  horrible  to  hear  him.  Mr.  Moy  said  to 
him,  in  a  whisper,  "Control  yourself,  or  I  will 
throw  up  your  case." 

Without  answering — without  even  listening 
— he  lifted  one  of  his  hands,  and  looked  at  it 
vacantly.  He  whispered  something  to  himself ; 
and  counted  out  what  he  was  whispering  slowly ; 


178  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

in  divisions  of  his  own,  on  three  of  his  fingers  in 
succession.  He  fixed  his  eyes  again  on  Anne, 
with  the  same  devouring  hatred  in  their  look, 
and  spoke  (this  time  directly  addressing  himself 
to  her)  with  the  same  ferocious  vindictiveness  in 
his  tone.  ''But  for  you,  I  should  be  married  to 
Mrs.  Glenarm.  But  for  you,  I  should  be  friends 
with  my  father.  But  for  you,  I  should  have 
won  the  race.  I  know  what  I  owe  you."  His 
loosely  hanging  hands  stealthily  clinched  them- 
selves. His  head  sank  again  on  his  broad  breast. 
He  said  no  more. 

Not  a  soul  moved — not  a  word  was  spoken. 
The  same  common  horror  held  them  all  speech- 
less. Anne's  eyes  turned  once  more  on  Blanche. 
Anne's  courage  upheld  her,  even  at  that  moment. 

Sir  Patrick  rose.  The  strong  emotion  which 
he  had  suppressed  thus  far  showed  itself  plainly 
in  his  face — uttered  itself  plainly  in  his  voice. 

"Come  into  the  next  room,"  he  said  to  Anne. 
"I  must  speak  to  you  instantly!" 

Without  noticing  the  astonishment  that  he 
caused;  without  paying  the  smallest  attention  to 
the  remonstrances  addressed  to  him  by  his  sister- 
in-law  and  by  the  Scotch  lawyer,  he  took  Anne 
by  the  arm — opened  the  folding-doors  at  one  end 
of  the  room — entered  the  room  beyond  with  her 
— and  closed  the  doors  again. 

Lady  Lundie  appealed  to  her  legal  adviser. 
Blanche  rose — advanced  a  few  steps — and  stood 
in  breathless  suspense,  looking  at  the  folding- 
doors.  Arnold  advanced  a  step,  to  speak  to  his 
wife.     The  captain  approached  Mr.  Moy. 


MAN   AND  WIFE.  179 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  asked, 

Mr.  Moy  answered,  in  strong  agitation  on  his 
side: 

"It  means  that  I  have  not  been  properly  in- 
structed. Sir  Patrick  Lundie  has  some  evidence 
in  his  possession  that  seriously  compromises  Mr. 
Delamayn'scase.  He  has  shrunk  from  producing 
it  hitherto — he  finds  himself  forced  to  produce  it 
now.  How  is  it,"  asked  the  lawyer,  turning 
sternly  on  his  client,  "that  you  have  left  me  in 
the  dark?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  it,"  answered  Geof- 
frey, without  lifting  his  head. 

Lady  Lundie  signed  to  Blanche  to  stand  aside 
and  advanced  toward  the  folding-doors,  Mr. 
Moy  stopped  her. 

"I  advise  your  ladyship  to  be  patient.  Inter- 
ference is  useless  there." 

"Am  I  not  to  interfere,  sir,  in  my  own 
house?" 

"Unless  I  am  entirely  mistaken,  madam,  the 
end  of  the  proceedings  in  your  house  is  at  hand. 
You  will  damage  your  own  interests  by  interfer- 
ing. Let  us  know  what  we  .are  about  at  last. 
Let  the  end  come. ' ' 

Lady  Lundie  j^ielded,  and  returned  to  her 
place.  They  all  waited  in  silence  for  the  open- 
ing of  the  doors. 

Sir  Patrick  Lundie  and  Anne  Silvester  were 
alone  in  the  room. 

He  took  from  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat  the 
sheet  of  note-paper  which  contained  Anne's  let- 


180  WORKS     OF    WILKIE     COLLINS. 

ter,  and  Geoffrey's  reply.  His  hand  trembled 
as  he  held  it ;  his  voice  faltered  as  he  spoke. 

"I  have  done  all  that  can  be  done,"  he  said. 
"I  have  left  nothing  untried,  to  prevent  the  ne- 
cessity of  producing  this. ' ' 

"I  feel  your  kindness  gratefully,  Sir  Patrick. 
You  must  produce  it  now." 

The  woman's  calmness  presented  a  strange 
and  touching  contrast  to  the  man's  emotion. 
There  was  no  shrinking  in  her  face,  there  was 
no  unsteadiness  in  her  voice  as  she  answered 
him.  He  took  her  hand.  Twice  he  attempted 
to  speak;  and  twice  his  own  agitation  overpow- 
ered him.    He  offered  the  letter  to  her  in  silence. 

In  silence  on  her  side,  she  put  the  letter  away 
from  her,  wondering  what  he  meant. 

"Take  it  back,"  he  said.  "I  can't  produce  it! 
I  daren't  produce  it;  After  what  my  own  eyes 
have  seen,  after  what  my  own  ears  have  heard, 
in  the  next  room — as  God  is  my  witness,  I 
daren't  ask  you  to  declare  yourself  Geoffrey  Del' 
amayn's  wife  I" 

She  answered  him  in  one  word. 

"Blanche!" 

He  shook  his  head  impatiently.  "Not  even 
in  Blanche's  interests!  Not  even  for  Blanche's 
sake !  If  there  is  any  risk,  it  is  a  risk  I  am  ready 
to  run.  I  hold  to  my  own  opinion.  I  believe 
my  own  view  to  be  right.  Let  it  come  to  an 
appeal  to  the  law !  I  will  fight  the  case,  and  win 
it." 

"Are  you  sure  of  winning  it.  Sir  Patrick?" 

Instead  of  replying,  he  pressed  the  letter  on 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  181 

her.     "Destroy  it,"  he  whispered.     "And  rely 
on  my  silence. ' ' 

She  took  the  letter  from  him. 

"Destroy  it,"  he  repeated.  "They  may  open 
the  doors.  They  may  come  in  at  any  moment, 
and  see  it  in  your  hand." 

"I  have  something  to  ask  you.  Sir  Patrick, 
before  I  destroy  it.  Blanche  refuses  to  go  back 
to  her  husband,  unless  she  returns  with  the  cer- 
tain assurance  of  being  really  his  wife.  If  I  pro- 
duce this  letter,  she  may  go  back  to  him  to-day. 
If  I  declare  myself  Geoffrey  Delamayn's  wife,  I 
clear  Arnold  Brinkworth,  at  once  and  forever, 
of  all  suspicion  of  being  married  to  me.  Can 
you  as  certainly  and  effectually  clear  him  in  any 
other  way?  Answer  me  that,  as  a  man  of  honor 
speaking  to  a  woman  who  implicitly  trusts  him !" 

She  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  His  eyes 
dropped  before  hers — he  made  no  reply. 

"I  am  answered,"  she  said. 

With  those  words,  she  passed  him,  and  laid 
her  hand  on  the  door. 

He  checked  her.  The  tears  rose  in  his  eyes 
as  he  drew  her  gently  back  into  the  room. 

"Why  should  we  wait?"  she  asked. 

"Wait,"  he  answered,  "as  a  favor  to  me.'* 

She  seated  herself  calmly  in  the  nearest  chair, 
and  rested  her  head  on  her  hand,  thinking. 

He  bent  over  her,  and  roused  her,  impatiently, 
almost  angrily.  The  steady  resolution  in  her 
face  was  terrible  to  him,  when  he  thought  of  the 
man  in  the  next  room. 

"Take  time  to  consider,"  he  pleaded.     "Don't 


182  WORKS   OF   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

be  led  away  by  your  own  impulse.  Don't  act 
under  a  false  excitement.  Nothing  binds  you  to 
this  dreadful  sacrifice  of  yourself." 

"Excitement!  Sacrifice!"  She  smiled  sadly 
as  she  repeated  the  words.  "Do  you  know,  Sir 
Patrick,  what  I  was  thinking  of  a  moment 
since?  Only  of  old  times,  when  I  was  a  little 
girl.  I  saw  the  sad  side  of  life  sooner  than  most 
children  see  it.  My  mother  was  cruelly  deserted. 
The  hard  marriage  laws  of  this  country  were 
harder  on  her  than  on  me.  She  died  broken- 
hearted. But  one  friend  comforted  her  at  the 
last  moment,  and  promised  to  be  a  mother  to  her 
child.  I  can't  remember  one  unhappy  day  in  all 
the  after-time  when  I  lived  with  that  faithful 
woman  and  her  little  daughter — till  the  day  that 
parted  us.  She  went  away  with  her  husband ; 
and  I  and  the  little  daughter  were  left  behind. 
She  said  her  last  words  to  me.  Her  heart  was 
sinking  under  the  dread  of  coming  death.  'I 
promised  your  mother  that  you  should  be  like 
my  own  child  to  me,  and  it  quieted  her  mind. 
Quiet  my  mind,  Anne,  before  I  go.  "Whatever 
happens  in  years  to  come — promise  me  to  be 
always  what  you  are  now,  a  sister  to  Blanche.' 
Where  is  the  false  excitement,  Sir  Patrick,  in  old 
remembrances  like  these?  And  how  can  there 
be  a  sacrifice  in  anything  that  I  do  for  Blanche?" 

She  rose,  and  offered  him  her  hand.  Sir  Pat- 
rick lifted  it  to  his  lips  in  silence. 

"Come!"  she  said.  "For  both  our  sakes,  let 
us  not  prolong  this." 

He  turned   aside  his   head.     It  was  no  mo- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  183 

ment  to  let  her  see  that  she  had  completely  un- 
manned him.  She  waited  for  him,  with  her 
hand  on  the  lock.  He  rallied  his  courage — he 
forced  himself  to  face  the  horror  of  the  situation 
calmly.  She  opened  the  door,  and  led  the  way 
back  into  the  other  room. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  by  any  of  the  persons 
present,  as  the  two  returned  to  their  places.  The 
noise  of  a  carriage  passing  in  the  street  was 
painfully  audible.  The  chance  banging  of  a 
door  in  the  lower  regions  of  the  house  made 
every  one  start. 

Anne's  sweet  voice  broke  the  dreary  si- 
lence. 

"Must  I  speak  for  myself,  Sir  Patrick?  Or 
will  you  (I  ask  it  as  a  last  and  greatest  favor) 
speak  for  me?" 

"You  insist  on  appealing  to  the  letter  in  your 
hand?" 

"I  am  resolved  to  appeal  to  it." 

"Will  nothing  induce  you  to  defer  the  close 
of  this  inquiry — so  far  as  you  are  concerned — 
for  four-and-twenty  hours?" 

"Either  you  or  I,  Sir  Patrick,  must  say  what 
is  to  be  said,  and  do  what  is  to  be  done,  before 
we  leave  this  room." 

"Give  me  the  letter." 

She  gave  it  to  him.  Mr.  Moy  whispered  to 
his  client,  "Do you  know  what  that  is?"  Geof- 
frey shook  his  head.  "Do  you  really  remember 
nothing  about  it?"  Geoff  re  j^  answered  in  one 
surly  word,  ' '  Nothing !" 
Vol.  4  7— 


184  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Sir  Patrick  addressed  himself  to  the  assembled 
company. 

"I  have  to  ask  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "for 
abruptly  leaving  the  room,  and  for  obliging  Miss 
Silvester  to  leave  it  with  me.  Everybody  pres- 
ent, except  that  man"  (he  pointed  to  Geoffrey), 
"will,  I  believe,  understand  and  forgive  me, 
now  that  I  am  forced  to  make  my  conduct  the 
subject  of  the  plainest  and  the  fullest  explana- 
tion. I  shall  address  that  explanation,  for  rea- 
sons which  will  presently  appear,  to  my  niece." 

Blanche  started.     "Tome!"  she  exclaimed. 

"To  you,"  Sir  Patrick  answered. 

Blanche  turned  toward  Arnold,  daunted  by  a 
vague  sense  of  something  serious  to  come.  The 
letter  that  she  had  received  from  her  husband  on 
her  departure  from  Ham  Farm  had  necessarily 
alluded  to  relations  between  Geoffrey  and  Anne, 
of  which  Blanche  had  been  previously  ignorant. 
Was  any  reference  coming  to  those  relations? 
"Was  there  something  yet  to  be  disclosed  which 
Arnold's  letter  had  not  prepared  her  to  hear? 

Sir  Patrick  resumed. 

"A  short  time  since,"  he  said  to  Blanche,  "I 
proposed  to  you  to  return  to  your  husband's  pro- 
tection, and  to  leave  the  termination  of  this  mat- 
ter in  my  hands.  You  have  refused  to  go  back 
to  him  until  you  are  first  certainly  assured  that 
you  are  his  wife.  Thanks  to  a  sacrifice  to  your 
interests  and  your  happiness,  on  Miss  Silvester's 
part— which  I  tell  you  frankly  I  have  done  my 
utmost  to  prevent — I  am  in  a  position  to  prove 
positively  that  Arnold  Brinkworth  was  a  single 


MAN    AND    WIPE.  185 

man  when  he  married  you  from  my  house  in 
Kent." 

Mr.  Moy's  experience  forewarned  him  of  what 
was  coming.  He  pointed  to  the  letter  in  Sir 
Patrick's  hand. 

"Do  you  claim  on  a  promise  of  marriage?"  he 
asked. 

Sir  Patrick  rejoined  by  putting  a  question  on 
his  side. 

"Do  you  remember  the  famous  decision  at 
Doctors'  Commons,  which  established  the  mar- 
riage of  Captain  Dalrjnnple  and  Miss  Gordon?" 

Mr.  Moy  was  answered.  "I  understand  you, 
Sir  Patrick,"  he  said.  After  a  moment's  pause, 
he  addressed  his  next  words  to  Anne.  "And, 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  madam,  I  respect 
you.'''' 

It  was  said  with  a  fervent  sincerity  of  tone 
which  wrought  the  interest  of  the  other  persons, 
who  were  still  waiting  for  enlightenment,  to  the 
highest  pitch.  Lady  Lundie  and  Captain  New- 
enden  whispered  to  each  other  anxiously.  Ar- 
nold turned  pale.     Blanche  burst  into  tears. 

Sir  Patrick  turned  once  more  to  his  niece. 

"Some  little  time  since,"  he  said,  "I  had  oc- 
casion to  speak  to  you  of  the  scandalous  uncer- 
tainty of  the  marriage  laws  of  Scotland.  But 
for  that  uncertainty  (entirely  without  parallel  in 
any  other  civilized  country  in  Europe),  Arnold 
Brinkworth  would  never  have  occupied  the  posi- 
tion in  which  he  stands  here  to-day — and  these 
proceedings  would  never  have  taken  place.  Bear 
that  fact  in  mind.     It  is  not  only  answerable  for 


186  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

the  mischief  that  has  been  already  done,  but  for 
the  far  more  serious  evil  which  is  still  to  come." 

Mr.  Moy  took  a  note.     Sir  Patrick  went  on. 

"Loose  and  reckless  as  the  Scotch  law  is,  there 
happens,  however,  to  be  one  case  in  which  the 
action  of  it  has  been  confirmed  and  settled  by 
the  English  Courts.  A  written  promise  of  mar- 
riage exchanged  between  a  man  and  woman,  in 
Scotland,  marries  that  man  and  woman  by  Scotch 
law.  An  English  Court  of  Justice  (sitting  in 
judgment  on  the  case  I  have  just  mentioned  to 
Mr.  Moy)  has  pronounced  that  law  to  be  good 
— and  the  decision  has  since  been  confii*med  by 
the  supreme  authority  of  the  House  of  Lords. 
Where  the  persons  therefore — living  in  Scotland 
at  the  time — have  promised  each  other  marriage 
in  writing,  there  is  now  no  longer  any  doubt. 
They  are  certainly,  and  lawfully,  Man  and 
Wife."  He  turned  from  his  niece,  and  ap- 
pealed to  Mr.  Moy.     "Am  I  right?" 

"Quite  right.  Sir  Patrick,  as  to  the  facts.  I 
own,  however,  that  your  commentary  on  them 
surprises  me.  I  have  the  highest  opinion  of  our 
Scottish  marriage  law.  A  man  who  has  be- 
trayed a  woman  under  a  promise  of  mamage  is 
forced  by  that  law  (in  the  interests  of  public 
morality)  to  acknowledge  her  as  his  wife." 

"The  persons  here  present,  Mr.  Moy,  are  now 
about  to  see  the  moral  merit  of  the  Scotch  law  of 
marriage  (as  approved  by  England)  practically 
in  operation  before  their  own  eyes.  They  will 
judge  for  themselves  of  the  morality  (Scotch  or 
English)  which   first   forces  a  deserted   woman 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  187 

back  on  the  villain  who  has  betrayed  her,  and 
then  virtuously  leaves  her  to  bear  the  conse- 
quences." 

With  that  answer,  he  turned  to  Anne,  and 
showed  her  the  letter,  open  in  his  hand. 

"For  the  last  time,"  he  said,  "do  you  insist 
on  my  appealing  to  this?" 

She  rose,  and  bowed  her  head  gravely. 

"It  is  my  distressing  dutj^,"  said  Sir  Patrick, 
"to  declare,  in  this  lady's  name,  and  on  the  faith 
of  written  promises  of  marriage  exchanged  be- 
tween the  parties,  then  residing  in  Scotland,  that 
she  claims  to  be  now — and  to  have  been  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  fourteenth  of  August  last — Mr. 
Geoffrej"  Delamayn's  wedded  wife." 

A  cry  of  horror  from  Blanche,  a  low  murmur 
of  dismay  from  the  rest,  followed  the  utterance 
of  those  words. 

There  was  a  pause  of  an  instant. 

Then  Geoffrey  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  and 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  wife  who  had  claimed  him. 

The  spectators  of  the  terrible  scene  turned  with 
one  accord  toward  the  sacrificed  woman.  The 
look  which  Geoffrey  had  cast  on  her — the  words 
which  Geoff re}^  had  spoken  to  her — were  present 
to  all  their  minds.  She  stood,  waiting  by  Sir 
Patrick's  side — her  soft  gray  eyes  resting  sadly 
and  tenderly  on  Blanche's  face.  To  see  that 
matchless  courage  and  resignation  was  to  doubt 
the  reality  of  what  had  happened.  They  were 
forced  to  look  back  at  the  man  to  possess  their 
minds  with  the  truth. 

The  triumph  of  law  and  morality  over  him 


188  WORKS    OF    WILKIE   COLLINS. 

was  complete.  He  never  uttered  a  word.  His 
furious  temper  was  perfectly  and  fearfully  calm. 
With  the  promise  of  merciless  vengeance  written 
in  the  Devil's  writing  on  his  Devil-jDossessed 
face,  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  hated  woman 
whom  he  had  ruined — on  the  hated  woman  who 
was  fastened  to  him  as  his  wife. 

His  lawyer  went  over  to  the  table  at  which 
Sir  Patrick  sat.  Sir  Patrick  handed  him  the 
sheet  of  note-paper. 

He  read  the  two  letters  contained  in  it  with 
absorbed  and  deliberate  attention.  The  moments 
that  passed  before  he  lifted  his  head  from  his 
reading  seemed  like  hours.  "Can  you  prove  the 
handwritings?"  he  asked;  "and  prove  the  resi- 
dence?" 

Sir  Patrick  took  up  a  second  morsel  of  paper 
lying  ready  under  his  hand. 

"There  are  the  names  of  persons  who  can  prove 
the  writing,  and  prove  the  residence,"  he  replied. 
"One  of  your  two  witnesses  below  stairs  (other- 
wise useless)  can  speak  to  the  hour  at  which  Mr. 
Brinkworth  arrived  at  the  inn,  and  so  can  prove 
that  the  lady  for  whom  he  asked  was,  at  that 
moment,  Mrs.  Geoffrey  Delama}^.  The  indorse- 
ment on  the  back  of  the  note-paper,  also  refer- 
ring to  the  question  of  time,  is  in  the  handwrit- 
ing of  the  same  witness — to  whom  I  refer  you 
when  it  suits  your  convenience  to ,  question 
him." 

"I  will  verify  the  references,  Sir  Patrick,  as  a 
matter  of  form.  In  the  meantime,  not  to  inter- 
pose needless  and  vexatious  delay,  I  am  bound 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  189 

to  say  that  I  caunot  resist  the  evidence  of  the 
marriage. ' ' 

Having  replied  in  those  terms,  he  addressed 
himself,  with  marked  respect  and  sympathy,  to 
Anne. 

"On  the  faith  of  the  written  promise  of  mar- 
riage exchanged  between  you  in  Scotland, ' '  he 
said,  "you  claim  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  as 
3^our  husband?" 

She  steadily  repeated  the  words  after  him. 

"I  claim  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  as  my  hus- 
band." 

Mr.  Mo3^  appealed  to  his  client.  Geoffrey 
broke  silence  at  last. 

"Is  it  settled?"  he  asked. 

"To  all  practical  purposes,  it  is  settled." 

He  went  on,  still  looking  at  nobody  but  Anne. 

"Has  the  law  of  Scotland  made  her  my 
wife?" 

"The  law  of  Scotland  has  made  her  your 
wife. ' ' 

He  asked  a  third  and  last  question. 

"Does  the  law  tell  her  to  go  where  her  hus- 
band goes?" 

"Yes." 

He  laughed  softly  to  himself,  and  beckoned  to 
her  to  cross  the  room  to  the  place  at  which  he 
was  standing. 

She  obeyed.  At  the  moment  when  she  took 
the  first  step  to  approach  him,  Sir  Patrick  caught 
her  hand,  and  whispered  to  her,  "Rely  on  me!" 
She  gently  pressed  his  hand  in  token  that  she 
understood  him,  and  advanced  to  Geoffrey.     At 


190  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

the  same  moment,  Blanche  rushed  between  them, 
and  flung  her  arms  around  Anne's  neck. 

"Oh,  Anne!  Anne!" 

An  hysterical  passion  of  tears  choked  her  ut- 
terance. Anne  gently  unwound  the  arms  that 
clung  round  her — gently  lifted  the  head  that  lay 
helpless  on  her  bosom. 

" Happier  days  are  coming,  my  love,"  she  said. 
"Don't  think  of  me." 

She  kissed  her — looked  at  her — kissed  her 
again — and  placed  her  in  her  husband's  arms. 
Arnold  remembered  her  parting  words  at  Craig 
Fernie,  when  they  had  wished  each  other  good- 
night. "You  have  not  befriended  an  ungrate- 
ful woman.  The  day  may  yet  come  when  I  shall 
prove  it."  Gratitude  and  admiration  struggled 
in  him  which  should  utter  itself  first,  and  held 
him  speechless. 

She  bent  her  head  gently  in  token  that  she 
understood  him.  Then  she  went  on,  and  stood 
before  Geoffrey. 

"I  am  here,"  she  said  to  him.  "What  do 
you  wish  me  to  do?" 

A  hideous  smile  parted  his  heavy  lips.  He 
offered  her  his  arm. 

"Mrs.  Geoffrey  Delamayn,"  he  said.  "Come 
home." 

The  picture  of  the  lonely  house,  isolated  amid 
its  high  walls ;  the  ill-omened  figure  of  the  dumb 
woman  with  the  stony  eyes  and  the  savage  ways 
— the  whole  scene,  as  Anne  had  pictured  it  to 
him  but  two  days  since,  rose  vivid  as  reality  be- 
fore Sir  Patrick's  mind.     "No,"  he  cried  out, 


MAN    AND   WIPE.  I'.ll 

carried  away  by  the  generous  impulse  of  the 
moment.     "It  shall  not  be!" 

Geoffrej^  stood  impenetrable — waiting  with  his 
offered  arm.  Pale  and  resolute,  she  lifted  her 
noble  head — called  back  the  courage  which  had 
faltered  for  a  moment — and  took  his  arm. 

He  led  her  to  the  door,  "Don't  let  Blanche 
fret  about  me,"  she  said,  simply,  to  Arnold  as 
they  went  by.  They  passed  Sir  Patrick  next. 
Once  more  his  sympathy  for  her  set  every  other 
consideration  at  defiance.  He  started  up  to  bar 
the  way  to  Geoffrey.  Geoffrey  paused,  and 
looked  at  Sir  Patrick  for  the  first  time. 

"The  law  tells  her  to  go  with  her  husband," 
he  said.  "The  law  forbids  you  to  part  Man  and 
Wife." 

True.  Absolutely,  undeniably  true.  The  law 
sanctioned  the  sacrifice  of  her  as  unanswerably 
as  it  had  sanctioned  the  sacrifice  of  her  mother 
before  her.  In  the  name  of  Morality,  let  him 
take  her!  In  the  interests  of  Virtue,  let  her 
get  out  of  it  if  she  can ! 

Her  husband  opened  the  door.  Mr.  Moy  laid 
his  hand  on  Sir  Patrick's  arm.  Lady  Lundie, 
Captain  Newenden,  the  London  lawyer,  all  left 
their  places ;  influenced,  for  once,  by  the  same 
interest;  feeling,  for  once,  the  same  suspense. 
Arnold  followed  them,  supporting  his  wife.  For 
one  memorable  instant  Anne  looked  back  at  them 
all.  Then  she  and  her  husband  crossed  the 
threshold.  They  descended  the  stairs  together. 
The  opening  and  closing  of  the  house  door  was 
heard.     They  were  gone. 


192  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Done,  in  the  name  of  Morality.  Done,  in  the 
interests  of  Virtue.  Done,  in  an  age  of  progress, 
and  under  the  most  perfect  government  on  the 
face  of  the  earth. 


FIFTEENTH  SCENE.— H0LCHE8TEB 
HOUSE. 


CHAPTER   THE   FORTY-SEVENTH. 

THE    LAST   CHANCE, 

"His  lordship  is  dangerously  ill,  sir.  Her 
ladyship  can  receive  no  visitors." 

"Be  so  good  as  to  take  that  card  to  Lady  Hol- 
chester.  It  is  absolutely  necessary  that  your 
mistress  should  be  made  acquainted — in  the 
interests  of  her  younger  son — with  something 
which  I  can  only  mention  to  her  ladyship  her- 
seK." 

The  two  persons  speaking  were  Lord  Holches- 
ter's  head  servant  and  Sir  Patrick  Lundie.  At 
that  time  barely  half  an  hour  had  passed  since 
the  close  of  the  proceedings  at  Portland  Place. 

The  servant  still  hesitated  with  the  card  in 
his  hand.  "I  shall  forfeit  my  situation,"  he 
said,  "if  I  do  it." 

"You  will  most  assuredly  forfeit  your  situa- 
tion if  you  don't  do  it,"  returned  Sir  Patrick. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  193 

"I  warn  you  plainly,  this  is  too  serious  a  matter 
to  be  trifled  with." 

The  tone  in  which  those  words  were  spoken 
had  its  effect.  The  man  went  upstairs  with  his 
message. 

Sir  Patrick  waited  in  the  hall.  Even  the  mo- 
mentary delaj'-  of  entering  one  of  the  reception- 
rooms  was  more  than  he  could  endure  at  that 
moment.  Anne's  happiness  was  hopelessly  sac- 
rificed already.  The  preservation  of  her  personal 
safety — which  Sir  Patrick  firmly  believed  to  be 
in  danger — was  the  one  service  which  it  was 
possible  to  render  to  her  now.  The  perilous  po- 
sition in  which  she  stood  toward  her  husband — 
as  an  immovable  obstacle,  while  she  lived,  be- 
tween Geoffrey  and  Mrs.  Glenarm — was  beyond 
the  reach  of  remedy.  But  it  was  still  possible  to 
prevent  her  from  becoming  the  innocent  cause 
of  Geoffrey's  pecuniary  ruin,  b}'^  standing  in  the 
way  of  a  reconciliation  between  father  and  son. 
Resolute  to  leave  no  means  untried  of  serving 
Anne's  interests,  Sir  Patrick  had  allowed  Arnold 
and  Blanche  to  go  to  his  own  residence  in  Lon- 
don, alone,  and  had  not  even  waited  to  say  a 
farewell  word  to  any  of  the  persons  who  had 
taken  part  in  the  inquiry.  "Her  life  may  de- 
pend on  what  I  can  do  for  her  at  Holchester 
House!"  With  that  conviction  in  him,  he  had 
left  Portland  Place.  With  that  conviction  in 
him,  he  had  sent  his  message  to  Lady  Holches- 
ter, and  was  now  waiting  for  the  reply. 

The  servant  appeared  again  on  the  stairs.  Sir 
Patrick  went  up  to  meet  him. 


194  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"Her  ladyship  will  see  you,  sir,  for  a  few 
minutes." 

The  door  of  an  upper  room  was  opened ;  and 
Sir  Patrick  found  himseK  in  the  presence  of 
Geoffrey's  mother.  There  was  only  time  to 
observe  that  she  possessed  the  remains  of  rare 
personal  beauty,  and  that  she  received  her  visi- 
tor with  a  grace  and  courtesy  which  implied 
(under  the  circumstances)  a  considerate  regard 
for  his  position  at  the  expense  of  her  own. 

"You  have  something  to  say  to  me,  Sir  Pat- 
rick, on  the  subject  of  my  second  son.  I  am  in 
great  aflQiction.  If  you  bring  me  bad  news,  I 
will  do  my  best  to  bear  it.  May  I  trust  to  your 
kindness  not  to  keep  me  in  suspense?" 

"It  will  help  me  to  make  my  intrusion  as  little 
painful  as  possible  to  your  ladyship, ' '  replied  Sir 
Patrick,  "if  I  am  permitted  to  ask  a  question. 
Have  you  heard  of  any  obstacle  to  the  contem- 
plated marriage  of  Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  and 
Mrs.  Glenarm?" 

Even  that  distant  reference  to  Anne  produced 
an  ominous  change  for  the  worse  in  Lady  Hol- 
chester's  manner. 

"I  have  heard  of  the  obstacle  to  which  you 
allude,"  she  said.  "Mrs.  Glenarm  is  an  inti- 
mate friend  of  mine.  She  has  informed  me  that 
a  person  named  Silvester,  an  impudent  advent- 
uress— " 

"I  beg  your  ladyship's  pardon.  You  are  doing 
a  cruel  wrong  to  the  noblest  woman  I  have  ever 
met  with." 

"I  cannot  undertake.  Sir  Patrick,  to  enter  into 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  195 

your  reasons  for  admiring  her.  Her  conduct 
toward  my  son  has,  I  repeat,  been  the  conduct 
of  an  impudent  adventuress." 

Those  words  showed  Sir  Patrick  the  utter 
hopelessness  of  shaking  her  prejudice  against 
Anne.  He  decided  on  proceeding  at  once  to  the 
disclosure  of  the  truth. 

"I  entreat  you  to  say  no  more,"  he  answered. 
"Your  ladyship  is  speaking  of  your  son's  wife." 

"My  son  has  married  Miss  Silvester?" 

"Yes." 

She  turned  deadly  pale.  It  appeared,  for  an 
instant,  as  if  the  shock  had  completely  over- 
whelmed her.  But  the  mother's  weakness  was 
only  momentary.  The  virtuous  indignation  of 
the  great  lady  had  taken  its  place  before  Sir  Pat- 
rick could  speak  again.  She  rose  to  terminate 
the  interview. 

"I  presume,"  she  said,  "that your  errand  here 
is  at  an  end." 

Sir  Patrick  rose,  on  his  side,  resolute  to  do  the 
duty  which  had  brought  him  to  the  house. 

"I  am  compelled  to  trespass  on  your  ladyship's 
attention  for  a  few  minutes  more,"  he  answered. 
"The  circumstances  attending  the  marriage  of 
Mr.  Geoffrey  Delamayn  are  of  no  common  im- 
portance. I  beg  permission  (in  the  interests  of 
his  family)  to  state,  very  briefly,  what  they 
are." 

In  a  few  clear  sentences  he  narrated  what  had 
happened,  that  afternoon,  in  Portland  Place. 
Lady  Holchester  listened  with  the  steadiest  and 
coldest  attention.      So  far  as  outward  appear- 


196  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

ances  were  concerned,  no  impression  was  pro- 
duced upon  her, 

"Do  you  expect  me,"  she  asked,  "to  espouse 
the  interests  of  a  person  who  has  prevented  my 
son  from  marrying  the  lady  of  his  choice,  and  of 
mine?" 

"Mr.  Geojffrey  Delamayn,  unhappily,  has  that 
reason  for  resenting  his  wife's  innocent  inter- 
ference with  interests  of  considerable  impor- 
tance to  him,"  returned  Sir  Patrick.  "I  request 
your  ladyship  to  consider  whether  it  is  desirable 
— in  view  of  your  son's  conduct  in  the  future — 
to  allow  his  wife  to  stand  in  the  doubly  perilous 
relation  toward  him  of  being  also  a  cause  of 
estrangement  between  his  father  and  him- 
self." 

He  had  put  it  with  scrupulous  caution.  But 
Lady  Holchester  understood  what  he  had  re- 
frained from  saying  as  well  as  what  he  had  actu- 
ally said.  She  had  hitherto  remained  standing 
—she  now  sat  down  again.  There  was  a  visible 
impression  produced  on  her  at  last. 

"In  Lord  Holchester's  critical  state  of  health," 
she  answered,  "I  decline  to  take  the  responsibil- 
ity of  telling  him  what  you  have  just  told  me. 
My  own  influence  has  been  uniformly  exerted  in 
m}^  son's  favor — as  long  as  my  interference  could 
be  productive  of  any  good  result.  The  tirne  for 
my  interference  has  passed.  Lord  Holchester 
has  altered  his  will  this  morning,  I  was  not 
present ;  and  I  have  not  yet  been  informed  of 
what  has  been  done.     Even  if  I  knew — " 

"  Your  ladyship  would  naturally  decline, "  said 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  197 

Sir  Patrick,  "to  communicate  the  information  to 
a  stranger." 

"Certainly.  At  the  same  time,  after  what 
you  have  said,  I  do  not  feel  justified  in  deciding 
on  this  matter  entirely  by  myself.  One  of  Lord 
Holchester's  executors  is  now  in  the  house. 
There  can  be  no  impropriety  in  your  seeing  him 
— if  you  wish  it.  You  are  at  liberty  to  say,  from 
me,  that  I  leave  it  entirely  to  his  discretion  to 
decide  what  ought  to  be  done." 

"I  gladly  accept  your  ladyship's  proposal." 

Lady  Holchester  rang  the  bell  at  her  side. 

"Take  Sir  Patrick  Lundie  to  Mr.  March  wood," 
she  said  to  the  servant. 

Sir  Patrick  started.  The  name  was  familiar 
to  him,  as  the  name  of  a  friend. 

"Mr.  March  wood  of  Hurlbeck?"  he  asked. 

"The  same." 

With  that  brief  answer.  Lady  Holchester  dis- 
missed her  visitor.  Following  the  servant  to  the 
other  end  of  the  corridor.  Sir  Patrick  was  con- 
ducted into  a  small  room — the  antechamber  to 
the  bedroom  in  which  Lord  Holchester  lay.  The 
door  of  communication  was  closed.  A  gentle- 
man sat  writing  at  a  table  near  the  window. 
He  rose,  and  held  out  his  hand,  with  a  look  of 
surprise,  when  the  servant  announced  Sir  Pat- 
rick's name.     This  was  Mr.  Marchwood. 

After  the  first  explanations  had  been  given, 
Sir  Patrick  patiently  reverted  to  the  object  of 
his  visit  to  Holchester  House.  On  the  first 
occasion  when  he  mentioned  Anne's  name  he 
observed    that   Mr.   Marchwood    became,    from 


198  WORKS    OF    WILKTE    COLLINS. 

that  moment,  specially  interested  in  what  he 
was  saying. 

''Do  you  happen  to  be  acquainted  with  the 
lady?"  he  asked. 

"I  only  know  her  as  the  cause  of  a  very 
strange  proceeding,  this  morning,  in  that  room." 
He  pointed  to  Lord  Holchester's  bedroom  as  he 
spoke. 

"Are  you  at  liberty  to  mention  what  the  pro- 
ceeding was?" 

"Hardly — even  to  an  old  friend  like  you — un- 
less I  felt  it  a  matter  of  duty,  on  my  part,  to 
state  the  circumstances.  Pray  go  on  with  what 
you  were  saying  to  me.  You  were  on  the  point 
of  telling  me  what  brought  you  to  this  house, ' ' 

Without  a  word  more  of  preface,  Sir  Patrick 
told  him  the  news  of  Geoffrey's  marriage  to 
Anne. 

"Married!"  cried  Mr.  Marchwood.  "Are  you 
sure  of  what  you  say?" 

"I  am  one  of  the  witnesses  of  the  marriage." 

"Good  heavens!  And  Lord  Holchester's  law- 
yer has  left  the  house!" 

"Can  I  replace  him?  Have  I,  by  any  chance, 
justified  you  in  telling  me  what  happened  this 
morning  in  the  next  room?" 

"Justified  me?  You  have  left  me  no  other 
alternative.  The  doctors  are  all  agreed  in  dread- 
ing apoplexy — his  lordship  may  die  at  any  mo- 
ment. In  the  lawyer's  absence,  I  must  take  it 
on  myself.  Here  are  the  facts.  There  is  the 
codicil  to  Lord  Holchester's  Will,  which  is  still 
unsigned." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  199 

"Relating  to  his  second  son?" 

"  Relating  to  Geoff rey  Delamayn,  and  giving 
him  (when  it  is  once  executed)  a  liberal  provis- 
ion for  life." 

"What  is  the  object  in  the  way  of  his  execut- 
ing it?" 

"The  lady  whom  you  have  just  mentioned  to 
me." 

"Anne  Silvester?" 

"Anne  Silvester — now  (as  you  tell  me)  Mrs. 
Geojffrey  Delamayn.  I  can  only  explain  the 
thing  very  imperfectly.  There  are  certain  pain- 
ful circumstances  associated  in  his  lordship's 
memory  with  this  lady,  or  with  some  member  of 
her  family.  We  can  only  gather  that  he  did 
something — in  the  early  part  of  his  professional 
career — which  was  strictly  within  the  limits  of 
his  duty,  but  which  apparently  led  to  very  sad 
results.  Some  days  since  he  unfortunately  heard 
(either  through  Mrs.  Glenarm  or  through  Mrs. 
Julius  Delamayn)  of  Miss  Silvester's  appearance 
at  Swanhaven  Lodge.  No  remark  on  the  sub- 
ject escaped  him  at  the  time.  It  was  only  this 
morning,  when  the  codicil  giving  the  legacy  to 
Geoffrey  was  waiting  to  be  executed,  that  his 
real  feeling  in  the  matter  came  out.  To  our 
astonishment,  he  refused  to  sign  it.  'Find  Anne 
Silvester'  (was  the  only  answer  we  could  get 
from  him) ;  'and  bring  her  to  my  bedside.  You 
all  say  my  son  is  guiltless  of  injuring  her.  I  am 
lying  on  my  death-bed.  I  have  serious  reasons 
of  my  own — I  owe  it  to  the  memory  of  the  dead 
— to  assure  myself  of  the  truth.    If  Anne  Silves- 


^00  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

ter  herself  acquits  him  of  having  wronged  her, 
I  will  jDrovide  for  Geoffrey.  Not  otherwise.' 
We  went  the  length  of  reminding  him  that  he 
might  die  before  Miss  Silvester  could  be  found. 
Our  interference  had  but  one  result.  He  desired 
the  lawyer  to  add  a  second  codicil  to  the  Will — 
which  he  executed  on  the  spot.  It  directs  his 
executors  to  inquire  into  the  relations  that  have 
actually  existed  between  Anne  Silvester  and  his 
younger  son.  If  we  find  reason  to  conclude  that 
Geoffrey  has  gravely  wronged  her,  we  are  di- 
rected to  pay  her  a  legacy — provided  that  she  is 
a  single  woman  at  the  time." 

"And  her  marriage  violates  the  provision!" 
exclaimed  Sir  Patrick. 

"Yes.  The  codicil  actually  executed  is  now 
worthless.  And  the  other  codicil  remains  un- 
signed until  the  lawyer  can  produce  Miss  Silves- 
ter. He  has  left  the  house  to  apply  to  Geoffrej' 
at  Fulham,  as  the  only  means  at  our  disposal  of 
finding  the  lady.  Some  hours  have  passed — ^and 
he  has  not  yet  returned." 

"It  is  useless  to  wait  for  him,"  said  Sir  Pat- 
rick. "While  the  lawyer  was  on  his  way  to 
Fulham,  Lord  Holchester's  son  was  on  his  way 
to  Portland  Place.  This  is  even  more  serious 
than  you  suppose.  Tell  me,  what  under  less 
pressing  circumstances  I  should  have  no  right 
to  ask.  Apart  from  the  unexecuted  codicil, 
what  is  Geoffrey  Delamayn's  position  in  the 
will?" 

"He  is  not  even  mentioned  in  it.'* 

* '  Have  you  got  the  will  ? " 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  201 

Mr.  Marchwood  unlocked  the  drawer,  and 
took  it  out. 

Sir  Patrick  instantly  rose  from  his  chair. 

"No  waiting  for  the  lawyer!"  he  repeated  ve- 
hemently. "This  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
Lady  Holchester  bitterly  resents  her  son's  mar- 
riage. She  speaks  and  feels  as  a  friend  of  Mrs. 
Glenarm.  Do  you  think  Lord  Holchester  would 
take  the  same  view,  if  he  knew  of  it?" 

"It  depends  entirely  on  the  circumstances." 

"Suppose  I  informed  him — as  I  inform  you 
in  confidence — that  his  son  has  gravely  wronged 
Miss  Silvester?  And  suppose  I  followed  that  up 
by  telling  him  that  his  son  has  made  atonement 
by  marrying  her?" 

"After  the  feeling  that  he  has  shown  in  the 
matter,  I  believe  he  would  sign  the  codicil." 

"Then,  for  God's  sake,  let  me  see  him!" 

"I  must  speak  to  the  doctor." 

"Do  it  instantly!" 

"With  the  will  in  his  hand,  Mr,  Marchwood 
advanced  to  the  bedroom  door.  It  was  opened 
from  within  before  he  could  get  to  it.  The  doc- 
tor appeared  on  the  threshold.  He  held  up  his 
hand  warningly  when  Mr.  Marchwood  attempted 
to  speak  to  him. 

"Go  to  Lady  Holchester,"  he  said.  "It's  all 
over." 

"Dead?" 

"Dead." 


202  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 


SIXTEENTH  SCENE.— SALT  PATCH. 


CHAPTER   THE   FORTY-EIGHTH. 

THE    PLACE. 

Early  in  the  present  century  it  was  generally 
reported  among  the  neighbors  of  one  Reuben 
Limbrick  that  he  was  in  a  fair  way  to  make  a 
comfortable  little  fortune  by  dealing  in  salt. 

His  place  of  abode  was  in  Staffordshire,  on  a 
morsel  of  freehold  land  of  his  own — appropriately 
called  Salt  Patch.  Without  being  absolutely  a 
miser,  he  lived  in  the  humblest  manner,  saw  very 
little  company;  skillfully  invested  his  money; 
and  persisted  in  remaining  a  single  man. 

Toward  eighteen  hundred  and  forty  he  first 
felt  the  approach  of  the  chronic  malady  which 
ultimately  terminated  his  life.  After  trying 
what  the  medical  men  of  his  own  locality  could 
do  for  him,  with  very  poor  success,  he  met  by 
accident  with  a  doctor  living  in  the  western 
suburbs  of  London,  who  thoroughly  understood 
his  complaint.  After  some  journeying  back- 
ward and  forward  to  consult  this  gentleman,  he 
decided  on  retiring  from  business  and  on  tak- 
ing up  his  abode  within  an  easy  distance  of  his 
medical  man. 

Finding  a  piece  of  freehold  land  to  be  sold  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Fulham,  he  bought  it,  and 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  203 

had  a  cottage  residence  built  on  it,  under  hig 
own  directions.  He  surrounded  the  whole — be- 
ing a  man  singularly  jealous  of  any  intrusion  on 
his  retirement,  or  of  any  chance  observation  of 
his  ways  and  habits— with  a  high  wall,  which 
cost  a  large  sum  of  money  and  which  was  rightly 
considered  a  dismal  and  hideous  object  by  the 
neighbors.  When  the  new  residence  was  com- 
pleted, he  called  it  after  the  name  of  the  place 
in  Staffordshire  where  he  had  made  his  money 
and  where  he  had  lived  during  the  happiest  per- 
iod of  his  life.  His  relatives,  failing  to  under- 
stand that  a  question  of  sentiment  was  involved 
in  this  proceeding,  appealed  to  hard  facts,  and 
reminded  him  that  there  were  no  salt-mines  in 
the  neighborhood.  Reuben  Limbrick  answered, 
"So  much  the  worse  for  the  neighborhood" — and 
persisted  in  calling  his  property  "Salt  Patch." 

The  cottage  was  so  small  that  it  looked  quite 
lost  in  the  large  garden  all  round  it.  There  was 
a  ground- floor  and  a  floor  above  it — and  that 
was  all. 

On  either  side  of  the  passage,  on  the  lower 
floor,  were  two  rooms.  At  the  right-hand  side, 
on  entering  by  the  front  door,  there  was  a 
kitchen,  with  its  outhouses  attached.  The  room 
next  to  the  kitchen  looked  into  the  garden.  In 
Reuben  Limbrick 's  time  it  was  called  a  study, 
and  contained  a  small  collection  of  books  and  a 
large  store  of  fishing-tackle.  On  the  left-hand 
side  of  the  passage  there  was  a  drawing-room 
situated  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  communi- 
cating with  a  dining-room  in  the  front.     On  the 


304  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

upper  floor  there  were  five  bedrooms — two  on 
one  side  of  the  passage,  corresponding  in  size 
with  the  dining-room  and  the  drawing-room  be- 
low, but  not  opening  into  each  other;  three  on 
the  other  side  of  the  passage,  consisting  of  one 
larger  room  in  front,  and  of  two  small  rooms  at 
the  back.  All  these  were  solidly  and  completely 
furnished.  Money  had  not  been  spared,  and 
workmanship  had  not  been  stinted.  It  was  all 
substantial— -and,  upstairs  and  downstairs,  it  was 
all  ugly. 

The  situation  of  Salt  Patch  was  lonely.  The 
lands  of  the  market- gardeners  separated  it  from 
other  houses.  Jealously  surrounded  by  its  own 
high  walls,  the  cottage  suggested,  even  to  the 
most  unimaginative  persons,  the  idea  of  an  asy- 
lum or  a  prison.  Reuben  Limbrick's  relatives, 
occasionally  coming  to  stay  with  him,  found  the 
place  prey  on  their  spirits,  and  rejoiced  when  the 
time  came  for  going  home  again.  They  were 
never  pressed  to  stay  against  their  will.  Reuben 
Limbrick  was  not  a  hospitable  or  a  sociable 
man.  He  set  very  little  value  on  human  sym- 
pathy, in  his  attacks  of  illness ;  and  he  bore  con- 
gratulations impatiently,  in  his  intervals  of 
health.  "I  care  about  nothing  but  fishing,"  he 
used  to  say.  "I  find  mj^  dog  very  good  com- 
pany. And  I  am  quite  happy  as  long  as  I  am 
free  from  pain. ' ' 

On  his  death-bed  he  divided  his  money  justly 
enough  among  his  relations.  The  only  part  of 
his  Will  which  exposed  itself  to  unfavorable  crit- 
icism, was  a  clause  conferring  a  legacy  on  one 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  205 

of  his  sisters  (then  a  widow)  who  had  estranged 
herself  from  her  family  by  marrying  beneath 
her.  The  family  agreed  in  considering  this  un- 
happy person  as  underserving  of  notice  or  bene- 
fit. Her  name  was  Hester  Dethridge.  It  proved 
to  be  a  great  aggravation  of  Hester's  offenses,  in 
the  eyes  of  Hester's  relatives,  when  it  was  dis- 
covered that  she  possessed  a  life  interest  in  Salt 
Patch,  and  an  income  of  two  hundred  a  year. 

Not  visited  by  the  surviving  members  of  her 
family,  living,  literally,  by  herself  in  the  world, 
Hester  decided,  in  spite  of  her  comfortable  little 
income,  on  letting  lodgings.  The  explanation 
of  this  strange  conduct  which  she  had  written 
on  her  slate,  in  reply  to  an  inquiry  from  Anne, 
was  the  true  one.  "I  have  not  got  a  friend  in 
the  world:  I  dare  not  live  alone. "  In  that  des- 
olate situation,  and  with  that  melancholy  mo- 
tive, she  put  the  house  into  an  agent's  hands. 
The  first  person  in  want  of  lodgings  whom  the 
agent  sent  to  see  the  place  was  Perry  the  trainer ; 
and  Hester's  first  tenant  was  Geoffrey  Dela- 
mayn. 

The  rooms  which  the  landlady  reserved  for 
herself  were  the  kitchen,  the  room  next  to  it, 
which  had  once  been  her  brother's  "study,"  and 
the  two  small  back  bedrooms  upstairs — one  for 
herseff,  the  other  for  the  servant-girl  whom  she 
employed  to  help  her.  The  whole  of  the  rest  of 
the  cottage  was  to  let.  It  was  more  than  the 
trainer  wanted ;  but  Hester  Dethridge  refused 
to  dispose  of  her  lodgings — either  as  to  the  rooms 
occupied,  or  as  to  the  period  for  which  they  were 


206  WORKS   OF   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

to  be  taken — on  other  than  her  own  terms.  Perry 
had  no  alternative  but  to  lose  the  advantage  of 
the  garden  as  a  private  training-ground,  or  to 
submit. 

Being  only  two  in  number,  the  lodgers  had 
three  bedrooms  to  choose  from.  Geoffrey  estab- 
lished himself  in  the  back  room,  over  the  draw- 
ing-room. Perry  chose  the  front  room,  placed 
on  the  other  side  of  the  cottage,  next  to  the  two 
smaller  apartments  occupied  by  Hester  and  her 
maid.  Under  this  arrangement,  the  front  bed- 
room, on  the  opposite  side  of  the  passage — next 
to  the  room  in  which  Geoffrey  slept — was  left 
empty,  and  was  called,  for  the  time  being,  the 
spare  room.  As  for  the  lower  floor,  the  athlete 
and  his  trainer  ate  their  meals  in  the  dining- 
room  ;  and  left  the  drawing-room,  as  a  needless 
luxury,  to  take  care  of  itself. 

The  Foot-race  once  over,  Perry's  business  at 
the  cottage  was  at  an  end.  His  empty  bedroom 
became  a  second  spare  room.  The  term  for 
which  the  lodgings  had  been  taken  was  then 
still  unexpired.  On  the  daj^  after  the  race  Geof- 
frey had  to  choose  between  sacrificing  the  money, 
or  remaining  in  the  loagings  by  himself,  with 
two  spare  bedrooms  on  his  hands,  and  with  a 
drawing-room  for  the  reception  of  his  visitors — 
who  called  with  pipes  in  their  mouths,  and 
whose  idea  of  hospitality  was  a  pot  of  beer  in 
the  garden. 

To  use  his  own  phrase,  he  was  "out  of  sorts." 
A  sluggish  reluctance  to  face  change  of  any  kind 
possessed  him.     He  decided  on  staying  at  Salt 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  207 

Patch  until  his  marriage  to  Mrs.  Glenarm 
(which  he  then  looked  upon  as  a  certainty) 
obliged  him  to  alter  his  habits  completely,  once 
for  all.  From  Fulham  he  had  gone,  the  next 
day,  to  attend  the  inquiry  in  Portland  Place. 
And  to  Fulham  he  returned,  when  he  brought 
the  wife  who  had  been  forced  upon  him  to  her 
"home." 

Such  was  the  position  of  the  tenant,  and  such 
were  the  arrangements  of  the  interior  of  the 
cottage,  on  the  memorable  evening  when  Anne 
Silvester  entered  it  as  Geoffrey's  wife. 


CHAPTER  THE   FORTY-NINTH. 

THE    NIGHT. 

On  leaving  Lady  Lundie's  house,  Geoffrey 
called  the  first  empty  cab  that  passed  him.  He 
opened  the  door,  and  signed  to  Anne  to  enter 
the  vehicle.  She  obeyed  him  mechanically.  He 
placed  himself  on  the  seat  opposite  to  her,  and 
told  the  man  to  drive  to  Fulham. 

The  cab  started  on  its  journey,  husband  and 
wife  preserving  absolute  silence.  Anne  laid  her 
head  back  wearily,  and  closed  her  eyes.  Her 
strength  had  broken  down  under  the  effort 
which  had  sustained  her  from  the  beginning  to 
the  end  of  the  inquiry.  Her  power  of  thinking 
was  gone.  She  felt  nothing,  knew  nothing, 
feared  nothing.     Half  in  faintness,  half  in  slum- 


■208  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

ber,  she  had  lost  all  sense  of  her  own  terrible  po- 
sition before  the  first  five  minutes  of  the  journey 
to  Fulliam  had  come  to  an  end. 

Sitting  opposite  to  her,  savagely  self -concen- 
trated in  his  own  thoughts,  Geoffrey  roused  him- 
self on  a  sudden.  An  idea  had  sprung  to  life 
in  his  sluggish  brain.  He  put  his  head  out  of 
the  window  of  the  cab,  and  directed  the  driver 
to  turn  back  and  go  to  a  hotel  near  the  Great 
Northern  Railway. 

Resuming  his  seat,  he  looked  furtively  at 
Anne.  She  neither  moved  nor  opened  her  eyes 
. — she  was,  to  all  appearance,  unconscious  of 
what  had  happened.  He  observed  her  atten- 
tively. Was  she  really  ill?  Was  the  time  com- 
ing when  he  would  be  freed  from  her?  He 
pondered  over  that  question,  watching  her  close- 
ly. Little  by  little  the  vile  hope  slowly  in  him 
died  away,  and  a  vile  suspicion  took  its  place. 
What  if  this  appearance  of  illness  was  a  pretense? 
What  if  she  was  waiting  to  throw  him  off  his 
guard,  and  escape  from  him  at  the  first  oppor- 
tunity? He  put  his  head  out  of  the  window 
again,  and  gave  another  order  to  the  driver. 
The  cab  diverged  from  the  direct  route,  and 
stopped  at  a  public-house  in  Holborn,  kept  (under 
an  assumed  name)  by  Perry  the  trainer. 

Geoffrey  wrote  a  line  in  pencil  on  his  card, 
and  sent  it  into  the  house  by  the  driver.  After 
waiting  some  minutes,  a  lad  appeared  and 
touched  his  hat.  Geoffrey  spoke  to  him  out  of 
the  window  in  an  undertone.  The  lad  took  his 
])lace  on  the  box  by  the  driver.     The  cab  turned 


MAN    AND    WIPE.  'ZO'd 

back,  and  took  the  road  to  the  hotel  near  the 
Great  Northern  Railway. 

Arrived  at  the  place,  Geoffrey  posted  the  lad 
close  at  the  door  of  the  cab,  and  pointed  to  Anne, 
still  reclining  with  closed  eyes ;  still,  as  it  seemed, 
too  weary  to  lift  her  head,  too  faint  to  notice  any- 
thing that  happened.  "If  she  attempts  to  get 
out,  stop  her  and  send  for  me."  With  those 
parting  directions  he  entered  the  hotel  arid  asked 
for  Mr.  Moy. 

Mr.  Moy  was  in  the  house ;  he  had  just  re- 
turned from  Portland  Place.  He  rose,  and  bowed 
coldly,  when  Geoffrey  was  shown  into  his  sit- 
ting-room. 

"What  is  your  business  with  me?"  he  asked. 

"I've  had  a  notion  come  into  my  head,"  said 
Geoffrey,  "and  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  it 
directly." 

"I  must  request  you  to  consult  some  one  else. 
Consider  me,  if  you  please,  as  having  withdrawn 
from  all  further  connection  with  your  affairs." 

Geoffrey  looked  at  him  in  stolid  surprise. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you're  going  to  leave  me 
in  the  lurch?"  he  asked. 

"I  mean  to  say  that  I  will  take  no  fresh  step 
in  any  business  of  yours,"  answered  Mr.  Moy, 
firmly.  "As  to  the  future,  I  have  ceased  to  be 
your  legal  adviser.  As  to  the  past,  I  shall  care- 
fully complete  the  formal  duties  toward  you 
which  remain  to  be  done.  Mrs.  Inchbare  and 
Bishopriggs  are  coming  here,  by  appointment, 
at  six  this  evening,  to  receive  the  money  due 
to  them  before  they  go  back.     I  shall  return  to 


210  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Scotland  myself  by  the  night  mail.  The  persons 
referred  to  in  the  matter  of  the  promise  of  mar- 
riage, by  Sir  Patrick,  are  all  in  Scotland.  I  will 
take  their  evidence  as  to  the  handwriting,  and  as 
to  the  question  of  residence  in  the  North — and  I 
will  send  it  to  you  in  written  form.  That  done, 
I  shall  have  done  all.  I  decline  to  advise 
you  in  any  future  step  which  you  propose  to 
take." 

After  reflecting  for  a  moment,  Geoffrey  put  a 
last  question. 

"You  said  Bishopriggs  and  the  woman  would 
be  here  at  six  this  evening." 

"Yes." 

"Where  are  they  to  be  found  before  that?" 

Mr.  Moy  wrote  a  few  words  on  a  slip  of  paper, 
and  handed  it  to  Geoffrey.  "At  their  lodgings," 
he  said.     "There  is  the  address." 

Geoffrey  took  the  address,  and  left  the  room. 
Lawyer  and  client  parted  without  a  word  on 
either  side. 

Returning  to  the  cab,  Geoffrey  found  the  lad 
steadily  waiting  at  his  post. 

"Has  anything  happened?" 

"The  lady  hasn't  moved,  sir,  since  you  left 
her." 

"Is  Perry  at  the  public-house?" 

"Not  at  this  time,  sir." 

"I  want  a  lawyer.  Do  you  know  who  Perry's 
lawyer  is?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  where  he  is  to  be  found?" 

"Yes,  sir." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  211 

"Get  upon  the  box,  and  tell  the  man  where  to 
drive  to." 

The  cab  went  on  again  along  the  Euston  Road, 
and  stopped  at  a  house  in  a  side  street,  with  a 
professional  brass  plate  on  the  door.  The  lad 
got  down  and  came  to  the  window. 

"Here  it  is,  sir." 

"Knock  at  the  door,  and  see  if  he  is  at  home." 

He  proved  to  be  at  home.  Geoffrey  entered 
the  house,  leaving  his  emissarj'  once  more  on 
the  watch.  The  lad  noticed  that  the  lady  moved 
this  time.  She  shivered  as  if  she  felt  cold — 
opened  her  eyes  for  a  moment  wearily,  and 
looked  out  through  the  window- — sighed,  and 
sank  back  again  in  the  corner  of  the  cab. 

After  an  absence  of  more  than  half  an  hour 
Geoffrey  came  out  again.  His  interview  with 
Perry's  lawyer  appeared  to  have  relieved  his 
mind  of  something  that  had  oppressed  it.  He 
once  more  ordered  the  driver  to  go  to  Fulham  — 
opened  the  door  to  get  into  the  cab — then,  as  it 
seemed,  suddenly  recollected  himself — and,  call- 
ing the  lad  down  from  the  box,  ordered  him  to 
get  inside,  and  took  his  place  by  the  driver. 

As  the  cab  started,  he  looked  over  his  shoulder 
at  Anne  through  the  front  window.  ' '  Well  worth 
trying,"  he  said  to  himself.  "It's  the  way  to 
be  even  with  her.  And  it's  the  way  to  be 
free." 

They  arrived  at  the  cottage.  Possibly,  repose 
had  restored  Anne's  strength.  Possibly,  the 
sight  of  the  place  had  roused  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation  in  her  at  last.     To  Geoffrey's  sur- 


212  WORKS    OP    WILKIE   COLLINS. 

prise,  she  left  the  cab  without  assistance.  When 
he  Oldened  the  wooden  gate,  with  his  own  key, 
she  recoiled  from  it,  and  looked  at  him  for  the 
first  time. 

He  pointed  to  the  entrance. 

"Go  in,"  he  said. 

"On  what  terms?"  she  asked,  without  stirring 
a  step. 

Geoffrey  dismissed  the  cab,  and  sent  the  lad 
in  to  wait  for  further  orders.  These  things  done, 
he  answered  her  loudly  and  brutally,  the  mo- 
ment thej^  were  alone : 

"On  any  terms  1  please." 

"Nothing  will  induce  me,"  she  said,  firmly, 
"to  live  with  you  as  your  wife.  You  may  kill 
me — but  you  will  never  bend  me  to  that." 

He  advanced  a  stei3 — opened  his  lips — and  sud- 
denly checked  himself.  He  waited  a  while,  turn- 
ing something  over  in  his  mind.  When  he  spoke 
again,  it  was  with  marked  deliberation  and  con- 
straint— with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  repeat- 
ing words  put  into  his  lips,  or  words  prepared 
beforehand. 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you  in  the  presence 
of  witnesses, "  he  said.  "I  don't  ask  you,  or 
wish  you,  to  see  me  in  the  cottage  alone." 

She  started  at  the  change  in  him.  His  sudden 
composure,  and  his  sudden  nicety  in  the  choice 
of  words,  tried  her  courage  far  more  severely 
than  it  had  been  tried  by  his  violence  of  the 
moment  before. 

He  waited  her  decision,  still  pointing  through 
the  gate.    She  trembled  a  little — steadied  herself 


MAN    AND   WIPE.  213 

again — and  went  in.  The  lad,  waiting  in  the 
front  garden,  followed  her. 

He  threw  open  the  drawing-room  door,  on  the 
left-hand  side  of  the  passage.  She  entered  the 
room.  The  servant-girl  appeared.  He  said  to 
her,  "Fetch  Mrs,  Dethridge;  and  come  back 
with  her  yourself."  Then  he  went  into  the 
room;  the  lad,  by  his  own  directions,  following 
him  in ;  and  the  door  being  left  wide  open. 

Hester  Dethridge  came  out  from  the  kitchen, 
with  the  girl  behind  her.  At  the  sight  of  Anne, 
a  faint  and  momentary  change  passed  over  the 
stony  stillness  of  her  face.  A  dull  light  glim- 
mered in  her  eyes.  She  slowly  nodded  her  head, 
A  dumb  sound,  vaguely  expressive  of  something 
like  exultation  or  relief,  escaped  her  lips. 

Geoffrey  spoke — once  more,  with  marked  de- 
liberation and  constraint;  once  more,  with  the 
air  of  repeating  something  which  had  been  pre- 
pared beforehand.     He  pointed  to  Anne. 

"This  woman  is  my  wife,"  he  said.  "In  the 
presence  of  you  three,  as  witnesses,  I  tell  her 
that  I  don't  forgive  her.  I  have  brought  her 
here — having  no  other  place  in  which  I  can  trust 
her  to  be — to  wait  the  issue  of  proceedings,  un- 
dertaken in  defense  of  my  own  honor  and  good 
name.  While  she  stays  here,  she  will  live  sepa- 
rate from  me,  in  a  room  of  her  own.  If  it  is 
necessary  for  me  to  communicate  with  her,  I 
shall  only  see  her  in  the  presence  of  a  third  per- 
son.    Do  you  all  understand  me?" 

Hester  Dethridge  bowed  her  head.  The  other 
two  answered,  "Yes" — and   turned   to  go  out. 


214  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Anne  rose.  At  a  sign  from  Geoffrey,  the  servant 
and  the  lad  waited  in  the  room  to  hear  what  she 
had  to  say. 

"I  know  nothing  in  my  conduct,"  she  said, 
addressing  herself  to  Geoffrey,  "which  justifies 
you  in  telling  these  people  that  you  don't  for- 
give me.  Those  words  applied  by  you  to  me  are 
an  insult.  I  am  equall}^  ignorant  of  what  you 
mean  when  you  speak  of  defending  your  good 
name.  All  I  understand  is,  that  we  are  separate 
persons  in  this  house,  and  that  I  am  to  have  a 
room  of  my  own.  I  am  grateful,  whatever  your 
motives  may  be,  for  the  arrangement  that  you 
have  proposed.  Direct  one  of  these  two  women 
to  show  me  my  room." 

Geoffrey  turned  to  Hester  Dethridge. 

"Take  her  upstairs,"  he  said;  "and  let  her 
pick  which  room  she  pleases.  Give  her  what 
she  wants  to  eat  or  drink.  Bring  down  the  ad- 
dress of  the  place  where  her  luggage  is.  The  lad 
here  will  go  back  by  railway  and  fetch  it.  That's 
all.     Be  off." 

Hester  went  out.  Anne  followed  her  up  the 
stairs.  In  the  passage  on  the  upper  floor  she 
stopped.  The  dull  light  flickered  again  for  a 
moment  in  her  eyes.  She  wrote  on  her  slate,  and 
held  it  up  to  Anne,  with  these  words  on  it:  "I 
knew  you  would  come  back.  It's  not  over  yet 
between  you  and  him."  Anne  made  no  reply. 
She  went  on  writing,  with  something  faintly 
like  a  smile  on  her  thin,  colorless  lips.  "I  know 
something  of  bad  husbands.  Yours  is  as  bad  a 
one   as  ever   stood   in   shoes.     He'll   try  you." 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  215 

Anne  made  an  effort  to  stop  her,  "Don't  you 
see  how  tired  I  am?"  she  said,  gently.  Hester 
Dethridge  dropped  the  slate — looked  with  a 
steady  and  uncompassionate  attention  in  Anne's 
face — nodded  her  head,  as  much  as  to  say,  "I 
see  it  now" — and  led  the  way  into  one  of  the 
empty  rooms. 

It  was  the  front  bedroom  over  the  drawing- 
room.  The  first  glance  round  showed  it  to  be 
scrupulously  clean,  and  solidly  and  tastelessly 
furnished.  The  hideous  paper  on  the  walls,  the 
hideous  carpet  on  the  floor,  were  both  of  the  best 
quality.  The  great  heavy  mahogan}^  bedstead, 
with  its  curtains  hanging  from  a  hook  in  the 
ceiling,  and  with  its  clumsily-carved  head  and 
foot  on  the  same  level,  offered  to  view  the  anom- 
alous spectacle  of  French  design  overwhelmed 
by  English  execution.  The  most  noticeable 
thing  in  the  room  was  the  extraordinary  atten- 
tion which  had  been  given  to  the  defense  of  the 
door.  Besides  the  usual  lock  and  key,  it  pos- 
sessed two  solid  bolts,  fastening  inside  at  the 
top  and  the  bottom.  It  had  been  one  among  the 
many  eccentric  sides  of  Reuben  Limbrick's  char- 
acter to  live  in  perpetual  dread  of  thieves  break- 
ing into  his  cottage  at  night.  All  the  outer  doors 
and  all  the  window-shutters  were  solidly  sheathed 
with  iron,  and  had  alarm-bells  attached  to  them 
on  a  new  principle.  Every  one  of  the  bedrooms 
possessed  its  two  bolts  on  the  inner  side  of  the 
door.  And  to  crown  all,  on  the  roof  of  the  cot- 
tage was  a  little  belfry,  containing  a  bell  large 
enough  to  make  itself  heard  at  the  Fulham  police 
Vol.  4  8— 


21(3  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

station.  In  Reuben  Limbrick's  time  the  rope 
had  communicated  with  his  bedroom.  It  hung 
now  against  the  wall,  in  the  passage  outside. 

Looking  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  objects 
around  her,  Anne's  eyes  rested  on  the  partition 
wall  which  divided  the  room  from  the  room  next 
to  it.  The  wall  was  not  broken  by  a  door  of  com- 
munication; it  had  nothing  placed  against  it 
but  a  washhand-stand  and  two  chairs. 

"Who  sleeps  in  the  next  room?"  said  Anne. 

Hester  Dethridge  pointed  down  to  the  draw- 
ing-room in  which  they  had  left  Geoffrey.  Geof- 
frey slept  in  the  room. 

Anne  led  the  way  out  again  into  the  passage. 

' '  Show  me  the  second  room, ' '  she  said. 

The  second  room  was  also  in  front  of  the  house. 
More  ugliness  (of  first-rate  quality)  in  the  paper 
and  the  carpet.  Another  heavy  mahogany  bed- 
stead ;  but,  this  time,  a  bedstead  with  a  canopy 
attached  to  the  head  of  it — supporting  its  own 
curtains.  Anticipating  Anne's  inquiry,  on  this 
occasion,  Hester  looked  toward  the  next  room,  at 
the  back  of  the  cottage,  and  pointed  to  herself. 
Anne  at  once  decided  on  choosing  the  second 
room ;  it  was  the  furthest  from  Geoffrey.  Hester 
waited  while  she  wrote  the  address  at  which  her 
luggage  wovild  be  found  (at  the  house  of  the  mu- 
sical agent),  and  then,  having  applied  for  and 
received  her  directions  as  to  the  evening  meal 
which  she  should  send  upstairs,  quitted  the  room. 
Left  alone,  Anne  secured  the  door,  and  threw 
herself  on  the  bed.  Still  too  weary  to  exert  her 
mind,  still  physically  incapable  of  realizing  the 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  217 

helplessness  and  the  peril  of  her  position,  she 
opened  a  locket  that  hung  from  her  neck,  kissed 
the  portrait  of  her  mother  and  the  portrait  of 
Blanche  placed  opposite  to  each  other  inside  it, 
and  sank  into  a  deep  and  dreamless  sleep. 

Meanwhile  Geoffrey  repeated  his  final  orders 
to  the  lad  at  the  cottage  gate. 

"When  you  have  got  the  luggage,  you  are  to 
go  to  the  lawyer.  If  he  can  come  here  to-night, 
you  will  show  him  the  wa3^  If  he  can't  come, 
you  will  bring  me  a  letter  from  him.  Make  any 
mistake  in  this,  and  it  will  be  the  worst  day's 
work  you  ever  did  in  your  life.  Away  with  you, 
and  don't  lose  the  train. ' ' 

The  lad  ran  off.  Geoffrey  waited,  looking 
after  him,  and  turning  over  in  his  mind  what 
had  been  done  up  to  that  time. 

"All  right  so  far,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I 
didn't  ride  in  the  cab  with  her.  I  told  her  be- 
fore witnesses  I  didn't  forgive  her,  and  why  I 
had  her  in  the  house.  I've  put  her  in  a  room  by 
herself.  And  if  I  must  see  her,  I  see  her  with 
Hester  Det bridge  for  a  witness.  My  part's  done 
— let  the  lawyer  do  his." 

He  strolled  round  into  the  back' garden,  and 
lighted  his  pipe.  After  a  while,  as  the  twilight 
faded,  he  saw  a  light  in  Hester's  sitting-room 
on  the  ground  floor.  He  went  to  the  window. 
Hester  and  the  servant-girl  were  both  there  at 
work.  "Well,"  he  asked,  "how  about  the  wo- 
man upstairs?"  Hester's  slate,  aided  by  the 
girl's  tongue,  told  him  all  about  "the  woman" 
that  was  to  be  told.     They  had  taken  up  to  her 


218  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

room  tea  and  an  omelet;  and  they  had  been 
obliged  to  wake  her  from  a  sleep.  She  had  eaten 
a  little  of  the  omelet,  and  had  drunk  eagerly  of 
the  tea.  They  had  gone  up  again  to  take  the 
tray  down.  She  had  returned  to  the  bed — she 
was  not  asleep — only  dull  and  heavy.  Made  no 
remark.  Looked  clean  worn  out.  We  left  her  a 
light ;  and  we  let  her  be.  Such  was  the  report. 
After  listening  to  it,  without  making  any  no 
mark,  Geoffrey  filled  a  second  pipe  and  resumed 
his  walk.  The  time  wore  on.  It  began  to  feel 
chilly  in  the  garden.  The  rising  wind  swept 
audibly  over  the  open  lands  round  the  cottage; 
the  stars  twinkled  their  last ;  nothing  was  to  be 
seen  overhead  but  the  black  void  of  night.  More 
rain  coming.     Geoffrey  went  indoors. 

An  evening  newspaper  was  on  the  dining-room 
table.  The  candles  were  lighted.  He  sat  down, 
and  tried  to  read.  No !  There  was  nothing  in 
the  newspaper  that  he  cared  about.  The  time 
for  hearing  from  the  lawyer  was  drawing  nearer 
and  nearer.  Reading  was  of  no  use.  Sitting 
still  was  of  no  use.  He  got  up,  and  went  out  in 
the  front  of  the  cottage — strolled  to  the  gate — 
opened  it — and  looked  idly  up  and  down  the 
road. 

But  one  living  creature  was  visible  by  the 
light  of  the  gas-lamp  over  the  gate.  The  creature 
came  nearer,  and  proved  to  be  the  postman  go- 
ing his  last  round,  with  the  last  delivery  for  the 
night.  He  came  up  to  the  gate  with  a  letter  in 
his  hand. 

"The  Honorable  Geoffrey  Delamayn?" 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  219 

"All  right." 

He  took  the  letter  from  the  postman,  and 
went  back  into  the  dining-room.  Looking  at 
the  address  by^the  light  of  the  candles  he  recog- 
nized the  handwriting  of  Mrs.  Glenarm.  "To 
congratulate  me  on  my  marriage  I"  he  said  to 
himself,  bitterly,  and  opened  the  letter. 

Mrs.  Glenarm's  congratulations  were  expressed 
in  these  terms : 

"My  adored  Geoffrey — I  have  heard  all. 
My  beloved  one !  my  own !  you  are  sacrificed  to 
the  vilest  wretch  that  walks  the  earth,  and  I 
have  lost  you !  How  is  it  that  1  live  after  hear- 
ing it?  How  is  it  that  I  can  think,  and  write, 
with  my  brain  on  fire,  and  my  heart  broken? 
Oh,  my  angel,  there  is  a  purpose  that  supports 
me — pure,  beautiful,  worthy  of  us  both.  I  live, 
Geoffrey  —  I  live  to  dedicate  myself  to  the 
adored  idea  of  You.  My  hero!  my  first,  last 
love!  I  will  marry  no  other  man.  I  will  live 
and  die — I  vow  it  solemnly  on  my  bended  knees 
— I  will  live  and  die  true  to  You.  I  am  your 
Spiritual  Wife.  Mj^  beloved  Geoffrey !  she  can't 
come  between  us,  there — she  can  never  rob  you 
of  my  heart's  unalterable  fidelity,  of  my  soul's 
unearthly  devotion.  I  am  your  Spiritual  "Wife ! 
Oh,  the  blameless  luxury  of  writing  those  words ! 
Write  back  to  me,  beloved  one,  and  say  you  feel 
it  too.  Vow  it,  idol  of  my  heart,  as  I  have 
vowed  it.  Unalterable  fidelity!  unearthly  de- 
votion I  Never,  never  will  I  be  the  wife  of  any 
other    man !     Never,  never   will    I    forgive   the 


220  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

woman  who  has  come  between  us !  Yours  ever 
and  only;  yours  with  the  stainless  passion  that 
burns  on  the  altar  of  the  heart;  yours,  yours, 
yours,  E.  G." 

This  outbreak  of  hysterical  nonsense— in  it- 
self simply  ridiculous — assumed  a  serious  im- 
portance in  its  effect  on  Geoffrey.  It  associated 
the  direct  attaiilment  of  his  own  interests  with 
the  gratification  of  his  vengeance  on  Anne.  Ten 
thousand  a  year  self- dedicated  to  him — and 
nothing  to  prevent  his  putting  out  his  hand  and 
taking  it  but  the  woman  who  had  caught  him  in 
her  trap,  the  woman  upstairs  who  had  fastened 
herself  on  him  for  life ! 

He  put  the  letter  into  his  pocket.  "Wait  till 
I  hear  from  the  lawyer,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"The  easiest  way  out  of  it  is  that  way.  And 
it's  the  law." 

He  looked  impatiently  at  his  wa,tch.  As  he 
put  it  back  again  in  his  pocket  there  was  a  ring 
at  the  bell.  Was  it  the  lad  bringing  the  lug- 
gage? Yes.  And,  with  it,  the  lawyer's  report? 
No.     Better  than  that — the  lawyer  himself. 

"Come  in!"  cried  Geoffrey,  meeting  his  visi- 
tor at  the  door. 

The  lawyer  entered  the  dining-room.  The 
candle-light  revealed  to  view  a  corpulent,  full- 
lipped,  bright-eyed  man — with  a  stain  of  negro 
blood  in  his  yellow  face,  and  with  unmistakable 
traces  in  his  look  and  manner  of  walking  habit- 
ually in  the  dirtiest  professional  by-ways  of  the 
law. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  231 

"I've  got  a  little  place  of  my  own  in  your 
neighborhood,"  he  said.  ''And  I  thought  I 
would  look  in  myself,  Mr.  Delamayn,  on  my 
way  home." 

"Have  you  seen  the  witnesses?" 

"I  have  examined  them  both,  sir.  First,  Mrs. 
Inchbare  and  Mr.  Bishopriggs  together.  Next, 
Mrs.  Inchbare  and  Mr.  Bishopriggs  separately." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  sir,  the  result  is  unfavorable,  I  am 
sorry  to  say." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  of  them,  Mr. 
Delamayn,  can  give  the  evidence  we  want.  I 
have  made  sure  of  that." 

"Made  sure  of  that?  You  have  made  an  in- 
fernal mess  of  it!  You  don't  understand  the 
case!" 

The  mulatto  lawyer  smiled.  The  rudeness  of 
his  client  appeared  only  to  amuse  him. 

"Don't  I?"  he  said.  "Suppose  you  tell  me 
where  I  am  wrong  about  it?  Here  it  is  in  out- 
line only.  On  the  fourteenth  of  August  last  your 
wife  was  at  an  inn  in  Scotland.  A  gentleman 
named  Arnold  Brinkworth  joined  her  there.  He 
represented  himself  to  be  her  husband,  and  he 
stayed  with  her  till  the  next  morning.  Starting 
from  those  facts,  the  object  you  have  in  view  is 
to  sue  for  a  Divorce  from  your  wife.  You  make 
Mr.  Arnold  Brinkworth  the  co-respondent.  And 
you  produce  in  evidence  the  waiter  and  the  land- 
lady of  the  inn.     Anything  wrong,  sir,  so  far?" 

Nothing  wrong.     At  one  cowardly  stroke  to 


222  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

cast  Anne  disgraced  on  the  world,  and  to  set 
himseK  free — there,  plainly  and  truly  stated,  was 
the  scheme  which  he  had  devised  when  he  had 
turned  back  on  the  way  to  Fulham  to  consult 
Mr.  Moy. 

"So  much  for  the  case,"  resumed  the  lawyer. 
"Now  for  what  I  have  done  on  receiving  your 
instructions.  I  have  examined  the  witnesses; 
and  I  have  had  an  interview  (not  a  very  pleasant 
one)  with  Mr.  Moy.  The  result  of  those  two 
proceedings  is  briefly  this.  First  discovery :  In 
assuming  the  character  of  the  lady's  husband, 
Mr.  Brinkworth  was  acting  under  your  direc- 
tions— which  tells  dead  against  you.  Second 
discovery :  Not  the  slightest  impropriety  of  con- 
duct, not  an  approach  even  to  harmless  familiar- 
ity, was  detected  by  either  of  the  witnesses, 
while  the  lady  and  gentleman  were  together  at 
the  inn.  There  is  literally  no  eviderice  to  pro- 
duce against  them,  except  that  they  ivere  to- 
gether— in  two  rooms.  How  are  you  to  assume 
a  guilty  purpose,  when  you  can't  prove  an  ap- 
proach to  a  guilty  act?  You  can  no  more  take 
such  a  case  as  that  into  Court  than  you  can  jump 
over  the  roof  of  this  cottage. ' ' 

He  looked  hard  at  his  client,  expecting  to  re- 
ceive a  violent  reply.  His  client  agreeably  dis- 
appointed him.  A  very  strange  impression 
appeared  to  have  been  produced  on  this  reckless 
and  headstrong  man.  He  got  up  quietly;  he 
spoke  with  perfect  outward  composure  of  face  and 
manner  when  he  said  his  next  words. 

"Have  you  given  up  the  case?" 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  223 

"As  things  are  at  present,  Mr.  Delamayn, 
there  is  no  case. ' ' 

"And  no  hope  of  my  getting  divorced  from 
her?" 

"Wait  a  moment.  Have  your  wife  and  Mr. 
Brinkworth  met  nowhere  since  they  were  to- 
gether at  the  Scotch  inn?" 

"Nowhere." 

"As  to  the  future,  of  course  I  can't  say.  As 
to  the  past,  there  is  no  hope  of  your  getting 
divorced  from  her. ' ' 

"Thank  you.     Good-night." 

"Good- night,  Mr.  Delamayn." 

Fastened  to  her  for  life — and  the  law  power- 
less to  cut  the  knot. 

He  pondered  over  that  result  until  he  had 
thoroughly  realized  it  and  fixed  it  in  his  mind. 
Then  he  took  out  Mrs.  Glenarm's  letter,  and  read 
it  through  again  attentively  from  beginning  to 
end. 

Nothing  could  shake  her  devotion  to  him. 
Nothing  would  induce  her  to  marry  another 
man.  There  she  was — in  her  own  words — dedi- 
cated to  him ;  waiting,  with  her  fortune  at  her 
own  disposal,  to  be  his  wife.  There  also  was  his 
father,  waiting  (so  far  as  he  knew,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  any  tidings  from  Holchester  House)  to 
welcome  Mrs.  Glenarm  as  a  daughter-in-law  and 
to  give  Mrs.  Glenarm's  husband  an  income  of 
his  own. 

As  fair  a  prospect,  on  all  sides,  as  man 
could  desire.     And  nothing  in  the  way  of  it  but 


224  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

the  woman  who  had  caught  him  in  her  trap — 
the  woman  upstairs  who  had  fastened  herself 
on  him  for  life. 

He  went  out  in  the  garden  in  the  darkness  of 
the  night. 

There  was  open  communication,  on  all  sides, 
between  the  back  garden  and  the  front.  He 
walked  round  and  round  the  cottage — now  ap- 
pearing in  a  stream  of  light  from  a  window ; 
now  disappearing  again  in  the  darkness.  The 
wind  blew  refreshingly  over  his  bare  head.  For 
some  minutes  he  went  round  and  round,  faster 
and  faster,  without  a  pause.  When  he  stopped 
at  last,  it  was  in  front  of  the  cottage.  He  lifted 
his  head  slowly,  and  looked  up  at  the  dim  light 
in  the  window  of  Anne's  room. 

"How?"  he  said  to  himself.  "That's  the 
question.     How?" 

He  went  indoors  again,  and  rang  the  bell. 
The  servant-girl  who  answered  it  started  back 
at  the  sight  of  him.  His  florid  color  was  all 
gone.  His  eyes  looked  at  her  without  appearing 
to  see  her.  The  perspiration  was  standing  on 
his  forehead  in  great  heavy  drops. 

"Are  you  ill,  sir?"  said  the  girl. 

He  told  her,  with  an  oath,  to  hold  her  tongue 
and  bring  the  brandy.  When  she  entered  the 
room  for  the  second  time,  he  was  standing  with 
his  back  to  her,  looking  out  at  the  night.  He 
never  moved  when  she  put  the  bottle  on  the 
table.  She  heard  him  muttering  as  if  he  was 
talking  to  himself. 

The  same  difficulty  which  had  been  present  to 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  226 

his  mind  in  secret  under  Anne's  window  was 
present  to  his  mind  still. 

How?    That  was  the  problem  to  solve.    How? 

He  turned  to  the  brandy,  and  took  counsel  of 
that. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTIETH. 

THE   MORNING. 

When  does  the  vain  regret  find  its  keenest 
sting?  When  is  the  doubtful  future  blackened 
by  its  darkest  cloud?  When  is  life  least  worth 
having,  and  death  oftenest  at  the  bedside?  In 
the  terrible  morning  hours,  when  the  sun  is  ris- 
ing in  its  glory,  and  the  birds  are  singing  in  the 
stillness  of  the  new-born  day. 

Anne  woke  in  the  strange  bed,  and  looked 
round  her,  by  the  light  of  the  new  morning,  at 
the  strange  room. 

The  rain  had  all  fallen  in  the  night.  The  sun 
was  master  in  the  clear  autumn  sky.  She  rose, 
and  opened  the  window.  The  fresh  morning  air, 
keen  and  fragrant,  filled  the  room.  Far  and  near, 
the  same  bright  stillness  possessed  the  view.  She 
stood  at  the  window  looking  out.  Her  mind  was 
clear  again — she  could  think,  she  could  feel; 
she  could  face  the  one  last  question  which  the 
merciless  morning  now  forced  on  her — How  will 
it  end? 

Was  there  any  hope? — hope,  for  instance,  in 
what  she  might  do  for  herself.      What  can  a 


226  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

married  woman  do  for  herself?  She  can  make 
her  misery  public — provided  it  be  misery  of  a 
certain  kind — and  can  reckon  single-handed  with 
Society  when  she  has  done  it.     Nothing  more. 

Was  there  hope  in  what  others  might  do  for 
her?  Blanche  might  write  to  her — might  even 
come  and  see  her — if  her  husband  allowed  it; 
and  that  was  all.  Sir  Patrick  had  pressed  her 
hand  at  parting,  and  had  told  her  to  rely  on 
him.  He  was  the  firmest,  the  truest  of  friends. 
But  what  could  he  do?  There  were  outrages 
which  her  husband  was  privileged  to  commit, 
under  the  sanction  of  marriage,  at  the  bare 
thought  of  which  her  blood  ran  cold.  Could  Sir 
Patrick  protect  her?  Absurd!  Law  and  Soci- 
ety armed  her  husband  with  his  conjugal  rights. 
Law  and  Society  had  but  one  answer  to  give,  if 
she  appealed  to  them — You  are  his  wife. 

No  hope  in  herself;  no  hope  in  her  friends;  no 
hope  anywhere  on  earth.  Nothing  to  be  done 
but  to  wait  for  the  end — with  faith  in  the  Di- 
vine Mercy ;  with  faith  in  the  better  world. 

She  took  out  of  her  trunk  a  little  book  of 
Prayers  and  Meditations — worn  with  much  use 
— which  had  once  belonged  to  her  mother.  She 
sat  by  the  window  reading  it.  Now  and  then 
she  looked  up  from  it — thinking.  The  parallel 
between  her  mother's  position  and  her  own  posi- 
tion was  now  complete.  Both  married  to  hus- 
bands who  hated  them;  to  husbands  whose  in- 
terests pointed  to  mercenary  alliances  with  other 
women ;  to  husbands  whose  one  want  and  one  pur- 
pose was  to  be  free  from  their  wives.     Strange,' 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  227 

what  different  ways  had  led  mother  and  daughter 
both  to  the  same  fate !  Would  the  parallel  hold 
to  the  end?  "Shall  I  die,"  she  wondered,  think- 
ing of  her  mother's  last  moments,  "in  Blanche's 
arms?" 

The  time  had  passed  unheeded.  The  morning 
movement  in  the  house  had  failed  to  catch  her 
ear.  She  was  first  called  out  of  herself  to  the 
sense  of  the  present  and  passing  events  by  the 
voice  of  the  servant-girl  outside  the  door. 

"The master  wants  you,  ma'am,  downstairs." 
She  rose  instantly,   and  put  away  the  little 
book. 

"Is  that  all  the  message?"  she  asked,  opening 
the  door. 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

She  followed  the  girl  downstairs ;  recalling  to 
her  memory  the  strange  words  addressed  to  her 
by  Geoffrey,  in  the  presence  of  the  servants,  on 
the  evening  before.  Was  she  now  to  know  what 
those  words  really  meant?  The  doubt  would 
soon  be  set  at  rest.  "Be  the  trial  what  it  may, ' ' 
she  thought  to  herself,  "let  me  bear  it  as  my 
mother  would  have  borne  it." 

The  servant  opened  the  door  of  the  dining- 
room.  Breakfast  was  on  the  table.  Geoffrey 
was  standing  at  the  window.  Hester  Dethrido-e 
was  waiting,  posted  near  the  door.  He  came 
forward— with  the  nearest  approach  to  gentle- 
ness in  his  manner  which  she  had  ever  yet  seen 
in  it— he  came  forward,  with  a  set  smile  on  his 
lips,  and  offered  her  his  hand ! 


228  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

She  had  entered  the  room,  prepared  (as  she 
believed)  for  anything  that  could  happen.  She 
was  not  prepared  for  this.  She  stood  speechless, 
looking  at  him. 

After  one  glance  at  her,  when  she  came  in, 
Hester  Dethridge  looked  at  him,  too — and  from 
that  moment  never  looked  away  again,  as  long- 
as  Anne  remained  in  the  room. 

He  broke  the  silence — in  a  voice  that  was  not 
like  his  own;  with  a  furtive  restraint  in  his 
manner  which  she  had  never  noticed  in  it  before. 

"Won't  you  shake  hands  with  your  husband, " 
he  asked,  "when  your  husband  asks  j^ou?" 

She  mechanicall}'  put  her  hand  in  his.  He 
dropped  it  instantly,  with  a  start.  "God!  how 
cold!"  he  exclaimed.  His  own  hand  was  burn- 
ing hot,  and  shook  incessantly. 

He  pointed  to  a  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table. 

"Will  you  make  the  tea?"  he  asked. 

She  had  given  him  her  hand  mechanically; 
she  advanced  a  step  mechanically — and  then 
stopped. 

"Would  you  prefer  breakfasting  by  yourself?  " 
he  said. 

"If  you  please,"  she  answered,  faintly. 

"Wait  a  minute.  I  have  something  to  say 
1:)ef ore  you  go. ' ' 

She  waited.  He  considered  with  himself; 
consulting  his  memory — visibly,  unmistakably, 
consulting  it  before  he  spoke  again. 

"I  have  had  the  night  to  think  in,"  he  said. 
"The  night  has  made  a  new  man  of  me.  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  what  I  said  yesterday.     I  was 


MAN   AND    WIFE.  229 

not  myself  yesterday.  I  talked  nonsense  yester- 
day. Please  to  forget  it,  and  forgive  it.  I  wish 
to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  make  amends — 
make  amends  for  my  past  conduct.  It  shall  be 
my  endeavor  to  be  a  good  husband.  In  the  pres- 
ence of  Mrs.  Dethridge,  I  request  you  to  give 
me  a  chance.  I  won't  force  your  inclinations. 
We  are  married — what's  the  use  of  regretting  it? 
Stay  here,  as  you  said  yesterday,  on  your  own 
terms.  I  wish  to  make  it  up.  In  the  presence 
of  Mrs.  Dethridge,  I  say  I  wish  to  make  it  up. 
I  won't  detain  you.  I  request  you  to  think  of  it. 
Good-morning. ' ' 

He  said  those  extraordinaiy  words  like  a  slow 
boy  saying  a  hard  lesson — his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  his  fingers  restlessly  fastening  and  un- 
fastening a  button  on  his  waistcoat. 

Anne  left  the  room.  In  the  passage  she  was 
obliged  to  wait,  and  support  herself  against  the 
wall.  His  unnatural  politeness  was  horrible;  his 
carefully  asserted  repentance  chilled  her  to  the 
soul  with  dread.  She  had  never  felt — in  the  time 
of  his  fiercest  anger  and  his  foulest  language^ — 
the  unutterable  horror  of  him  that  she  felt  now. 

Hester  Dethridge  came  out,  closing  the  door 
behind  her.  She  looked  attentively  at  Anne — 
then  wrote  on  her  slate,  and  held  it  out,  with 
these  words  on  it : 

"Do  you  believe  him?" 

Anne  pushed  the  slate  away,  and  ran  upstairs. 
She  fastened  the  door,  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

"He  is  plotting  something  against  me,"  she 
said  to  herself .     "What?" 


230  WORKS   OF   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

A  sickening,  physical  sense  of  dread — entirely 
new  in  her  experience  of  herself — made  her 
shrink  from  pursuing  the  question.  The  sinking 
at  her  heart  turned  her  faint.  She  went  to  get 
the  air  at  the  open  window. 

At  the  same  moment  there  was  a  ring  at  the 
gate-bell.  Suspicious  of  anything  and  every- 
thing, she  felt  a  sudden  distrust  of  letting  her- 
self be  seen.  She  drew  back  behind  the  curtain 
and  looked  out. 

A  man-servant,  in  livery,  was  let  in.  He  had 
a  letter  in  his  hand.  He  said  to  the  girl  as  he 
passed  Anne's  window,  "I  come  from  Lady 
Holchester ;  I  must  see  Mr.  Delamayn  instantly. ' ' 

They  went  in.  There  was  an  interval.  The 
footman  re-appeared,  leaving  the  place.  There 
was  another  interval.  Then  there  came  a  knock 
at  the  door.  Anne  hesitated.  The  knock  was 
repeated,  and  the  dumb  murmuring  of  Hester 
Dethridge  was  heard  outside.  Anne  opened  the 
door. 

Hester  came  in  with  the  breakfast.  She  pointed 
to  a  letter,  among  other  things,  on  the  tray.  It 
was  addressed  to  Anne,  in  Geoffrey's  handwrit- 
ing, and  it  contained  these  words : 

' '  My  father  died  yesterday.  Write  your  orders 
for  your  mourning.  The  boy  will  take  them. 
You  are  not  to  trouble  yourself  to  go  to  London. 
Somebody  is  to  come  here  to  you  from  the  shop." 

Anne  dropped  the  paper  on  her  lap  without 
looking  up.  At  the  same  moment  Hester  Deth- 
ridge's  slate  was  passed  stealthily  between  her 
eyes  and  the  note — with  these  words  traced  on 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  231 

it:  "His  mother  is  coming  to-day.  His  brother 
has  been  telegraphed  from  Scotland.  He  was 
drunk  last  night.  He's  drinking  again.  I  know 
what  that  means.   Look  out,  missus — look  out!" 

Anne  signed  to  her  to  leave  the  room.  She 
went  out,  pulling  the  door  to,  but  not  closing  it 
behind  her. 

There  was  another  ring  at  the  gate-bell.  Once 
more  Anne  went  to  the  window.  Only  the  lad 
this  time — arriving  to  take  his  orders  for  the 
day.  He  had  barely  entered  the  garden  when 
he  was  followed  by  the  postman  with  letters.  In 
a  minute  more  Geoffrey's  voice  was  heard  in  the 
passage,  and  Geoffrey's  heavy  step  ascended  the 
wooden  stairs.  Anne  hurried  across  the  room 
to  draw  the  bolts.  Geoffrey  met  her  before  she 
could  close  the  door. 

"A  letter  for  you,"  he  said,  keeping  scrupu- 
lously out  of  the  room.  "I  don't  wish  to  force 
your  inclinations — I  only  request  you  to  tell  me 
who  it's  from." 

His  manner  was  as  carefully  subdued  as  ever. 
But  the  unacknowledged  distrust  in  him  (when 
he  looked  at  her)  betrayed  itself  in  his  eye. 

She  glanced  at  the  handwriting  on  the  ad- 
dress. 

"From  Blanche,"  she  answered. 

He  softly  put  his  foot  between  the  door  and 
the  post — and  waited  until  she  had  opened  and 
read  Blanche's  letter. 

"May  I  see  it?"  he  asked — and  put  in  his 
hand  for  it  through  the  door. 

The  spirit  in  Anne  which  would  once  have 


232  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

resisted  him  was  dead  in  her  now.  She  handed 
him  the  open  letter. 

It  was  very  short.  Excepting  some  brief  ex- 
pressions of  fondness,  it  was  studiously  confined 
to  stating  the  purpose  for  which  it  had  been  writ- 
ten. Blanche  proposed  to  visit  Anne  that  after- 
noon, accompanied  by  her  uncle;  she  sent  word 
beforehand,  to  make  sure  of  finding  Anne  at 
home.  That  was  all.  The  letter  had  evidently 
been  written  under  Sir  Patrick's  advice. 

Geoffrey  handed  it  back,  after  first  waiting  a 
moment  to  think. 

"My  father  died  yesterday,"  he  said.  "My 
wife  can't  receive  visitors  before  he  is  buried. 
I  don't  wish  to  force  your  inclinations.  I  only 
say  I  can't  let  visitors  in  here  before  the  funeral 
— except  my  own  family.  Send  a  note  down- 
stairs. The  lad  will  take  it  to  your  friend  when 
he  goes  to  London."  With  those  words,  he  left 
her. 

An  appeal  to  the  proprieties  of  life,  in  the 
mouth  of  Geoffrey  Delamayn,  could  only  mean 
one  of  two  things.  Either  he  had  spoken  in 
brutal  mockery — or  he  had  spoken  with  some 
ulterior  object  in  view.  Had  he  seized  on  the 
event  of  his  father's  death  as  a  pretext  for  isolat- 
ing his  wife  from  all  communication  with  the 
outer  world?  Were  there  reasons,  which  had 
not  yet  asserted  themselves,  for  his  dreading  the 
result,  if  he  allowed  Anne  to  communicate  with 
her  friends? 

The  hour  wore  on,  and  Hester  Dethridge  ap- 
peared again.     The  lad  was  waiting  for  Anne's 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  '-^33 

orders  for  her  mourning-,  and  for  her  note  to 
Mrs.  Arnold  Brinkworth. 

Anne  wrote  the  orders  and  the  note.  Once 
more  the  horrible  slate  appeared  when  she  had 
done,  between  the  writing-paper  and  her  eyes, 
with  the  hard  lines  of  warning  pitilessly  traced 
on  it.  "He  has  locked  the  gate.  When  there's 
a  ring  we  are  to  come  to  him  for  the  key.  He 
has  written  to  a  woman.  Name  outside  the  let- 
ter, Mrs.  Glenarm.  He  has  had  more  brandy. 
Like  my  husband.     Mind  yourself. ' ' 

The  one  way  out  of  the  high  walls  all  round 
the  cottage  locked.  Friends  forbidden  to  see 
her.  Solitary  imprisonment,  with  her  husband 
for  a  jailer.  Before  she  had  been  four-and- twenty 
hours  in  the  cottage  it  had  come  to  that.  And 
what  was  to  follow? 

She  went  back  mechanically  to  the  window. 
The  sight  of  the  outer  world,  the  occasional  view 
of  a  passing  vehicle,  helped  to  sustain  her. 

The  lad  appeared  in  the  front  garden  depart- 
ing to  perform  his  errand  to  London.  Geoffrey 
went  with  him  to  open  the  gate,  and  called  after 
him,  as  he  passed  through  it,  "Don't  forget  the 
books!" 

The  "books?"  What  "books?"  Who  wanted 
them?  The  slightest  thing  now  roused  Anne's 
suspicion.  For  hours  afterward  the  books 
haunted  her  mind. 

He  secured  the  gate  and  came  back  again. 
He  stopped  under  Anne's  window  and  called  to 
her.  She  showed  herself.  "When  you  want 
air  and  exercise,"  he  said,  "the  back  garden  is 


234  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

at  your  own  disposal. ' '  He  put  the  key  of  the 
gate  in  his  pocket  and  returned  to  the  house. 

After  some  hesitation,  Anne  decided  on  taking 
him  at  his  word.  In  her  state  of  suspense,  to 
remain  within  the  four  walls  of  the  bedroom  was 
unendurable.  If  some  lurking  snare  lay  hid 
under  the  fair- sounding  proposal  which  Geoffrey 
had  made,  it  was  less  repellent  to  her  boldly  to 
prove  what  it  might  be  than  to  wait  pondering 
over  it  with  her  mind  in  the  dark.  She  put  on 
her  hat  and  went  down  into  the  garden, 

Nothing  happened  out  of  the  common.  Where- 
ever  he  was,  he  never  showed  himself.  She 
wandered  up  and  down,  keeping  on  the  side  of 
the  garden  which  was  furthest  from  the  dining- 
room  window.  To  a  woman,  escape  from  the 
place  was  simply  impossible.  Setting  out  of  the 
question  the  height  of  the  walls,  they  were 
armed  at  the  top  with  a  thick  setting  of  jagged 
broken  glass.  A  small  back  door  in  the  end 
wall  (intended  probably  for  the  gardener's  use) 
was  bolted  and  locked — the  key  having  been 
taken  out.  There  was  not  a  house  near.  The 
lands  of  the  local  growers  of  vegetables  sur- 
rounded the  garden  on  all  sides.  In  the  nine- 
teenth century,  and  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
borhood of  a  great  metropolis,  Anne  was  as 
absolutely  isolated  from  all  contact  with  the 
humanity  around  her  as  if  she  lay  in  her  grave. 

After  the  lapse  of  half  an  hour,  the  silence  was 
broken  by  a  noise  of  carriage-wheels  on  the  pub- 
lic road  in  front,  and  a  ring  at  the  bell.  Anne 
kept  close  to  the  cottage,  at  the  back;    deter- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  285 

mined,  if  a  chance  offered,  on  speaking  to  the 
visitor,  whoever  the  visitor  might  be. 

She  heard  voices  in  the  dining-room  through 
the  open  window — Geoffrey's  voice  and  the  voice 
of  a  woman.  Who  was  the  woman?  Not  Mrs. 
Glenarm,  surely?  After  a  while  the  visitor's 
voice  was  suddenly  raised.  "Where  is  she?"  it 
said.  "I  wish  to  see  her."  Anne  instantly  ad- 
vanced to  the  back  door  of  the  house,  and  found 
herself  face  to  face  with  a  lady  who  was  a  total 
stranger  to  her. 

"Are  you  my  son's  wife?"  asked  the  lady. 

"I  am  your  son's  prisoner,"  Anne  answered. 

Lady  Holchester's  pale  face  turned  paler  still. 
It  was  plain  that  Anne's  reply  had  confirmed 
some  doubt  in  the  mother's  mind  which  had  been 
already  suggested  to  it  by  the  son. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

Geoffrey's  heavy  footsteps  crossed  the  dining- 
room.  There  was  no  time  to  explain,  Anne 
whispered  back: 

"Tell  my  friends  what  I  have  told  you." 

Geoffrey  appeared  at  the  dining-room  door. 

"Name  one  of  your  friends,"  said  Lady  Hol- 
chester. 

"Sir  Patrick  Lundie." 

Geoffrey  heard  the  answer,  "What  about  Sir 
Patrick  Lundie?"  he  asked. 

"I  wish  to  see  Sir  Patrick  Lundie,"  said  his 
mother.  "And  your  wife  can  tell  me  where  to 
find  him. ' ' 

Anne  instantly  understood  that  Lady  Hol- 
chester  would  communicate  with  Sir    Patrick. 


23G  WORKS    OF    WILKIE   COLLINS. 

She  mentioned  his  London  address.  Lady  Hol- 
chester  turned  to  leave  the  cottage.  Her  son 
stopped  her. 

"Let's  set  things  straight, "  he  said,  "before 
you  go.  My  mother,"  he  went  on,  addressing 
himself  to  Anne,  "don't  think  there's  much 
chance  for  us  two  of  living  comfortably  together. 
Bear  witness  to  the  truth — will  you?  What  did 
I  tell  you  at  breakfast-time?  Didn't  I  say  it 
should  be  mj'-  endeavor  to  make  you  a  good  hus- 
band? Didn't  I  say — in  Mrs.  Dethridge's  pres- 
ence— I  wanted  to  make  it  up?"  He  waited 
until  Anne  had  answered  in  the  affirmative,  and 
then  appealed  to  his  mother.  "Well?  what  do 
you  think  now?" 

Lady  Holchester  declined  to  reveal  Avhat  she 
thought.  "You  shall  see  me,  or  hear  from  me, 
this  evening, ' '  she  said  to  Anne.  Geoffrey  at- 
tempted to  repeat  his  unanswered  question.  His 
mother  looked  at  him.  His  eyes  instantly 
dropped  before  hers.  She  gravely  bent  her  head 
to  Anne,  and  drew  her  veil.  Her  son  followed 
her  out  in  silence  to  the  gate. 

Anne  returned  to  her  room,  sustained  by  the 
first  sense  of  relief  which  she  had  felt  since  the 
morning.  "His  mother  is  alarmed,"  she  said 
to  herself .     "A  change  will  come." 

A  change  ivas  to  come — with  the  coming 
night. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  237 

CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-FIRST. 

THE   PROPOSAL. 

Toward  sunset,  Lady  Holchester's  carriage 
drew  up  before  the  gate  of  the  cottage. 

Three  persons  occupied  the  carriage:  Lady 
Holchester,  her  eldest  son  (now  Lord  Holchester), 
and  Sir  Patrick  Lundie. 

"Will  you  wait  in  the  carriage,  Sir  Patrick?" 
said  Julius.     "Or  wiU  you  come  in?" 

"I  will  wait.  If  I  can  be  of  the  least  use  to 
her,  send  for  me  instantly.  In  the  meantime, 
don't  forget  to  make  the  stipulation  which  I 
have  suggested.  It  is  the  one  certain  way  of 
putting  your  brother's  real  feeling  in  this  matter 
to  the  test. ' ' 

The  servant  had  rung  the  bell  without  pro- 
ducing any  result.  He  rang  again.  Lady  Hol- 
chester put  a  question  to  Sir  Patrick. 

"If  I  have  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  my 
son's  wife  alone,"  she  said,  "have  you  any  mes- 
sage to  give?" 

Sir  Patrick  produced  a  little  note. 

"May  I  appeal  to  your  ladyship's  kindness  to 
give  her  this?"  The  gate  was  opened  by  the 
servant-girl,  as  Lady  Holchester  took  the  note. 
"Remember,"  reiterated  Sir  Patrick,  earnestly, 
"if  I  can  be  of  the  smallest  service  to  her— don't 
think  of  my  position  with  Mr.  Delamayn.  Send 
for  me  at  once. ' ' 

Julius  and  his  mother  were  conducted  into  the 


238  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

drawing-room.  The  girl  informed  them  that 
her  master  had  gone  upstairs  to  lie  down,  and 
that  he  would  be  with  them  immediately. 

Both  mother  and  son  were  too  anxious  to  speak. 
Julius  wandered  uneasily  about  the  room.  Some 
books  attracted  his  notice  on  a  table  in  the  cor- 
ner— four  dirty,  greasy  volumes,  with  a  slip  of 
paper  projecting  from  the  leaves  of  one  of  them, 
and  containing  this  inscription,  "With  Mr. 
Perry's  respects."  Julius  opened  the  volume. 
It  was  the  ghastly  popular  record  of  Criminal 
Trials  in  England,  called  the  Newgate  Calendar. 
Julius  showed  it  to  his  mother. 

"Geoffrey's  taste  in  literature!"  he  said,  with 
a  faint  smile. 

Lady  Holchester  signed  to  him  to  put  the  book 
back. 

"You  have  seen  Geoffrey's  wife  already — 
have  you  not?"  she  asked. 

There  was  no  contempt  now  in  her  tone  when 
she  referred  to  Anne.  The  impression  produced 
on  her  by  her  visit  to  the  cottage,  earlier  in  the 
day,  associated  Geoffrey's  wife  with  family  anx- 
ieties of  no  trivial  kind.  She  might  still  (for 
Mrs.  Glenarm's  sake)  be  a  woman  to  be  disliked 
— but  she  was  no  longer  a  woman  to  be  despised. 

"I  saw  her  when  she  came  to  Swanhaven," 
said  Julius.  "I  agree  with  Sir  Patrick  in  think- 
ing her  a  very  interesting  person." 

' '  What  did  Sir  Patrick  say  to  you  about  Geof- 
frey this  afternoon — while  I  was  out  of  the 
room?" 

"Only  what  he  said  to  you.    He  thought  their 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  2Hi) 

position  toward  each  other  here  a  very  deplora- 
ble one.  He  considered  that  the  reasons  were 
serious  for  our  interfering  i^l^lediatel3^ ' ' 

"Sir  Patrick's  own  opinion,  Julius,  goes  fur- 
ther than  that. ' ' 

" He  has  nolj-acknowledged  it,  that  I  know  of." 

"How  can  he  acknowledge  it — to  us?" 

The  door  opened,  and  Geoffrey  entered  the 
room. 

Julius  eyed  him  closely  as  they  shook  hands. 
His  eyes  were  bloodshot ;  his  face  was  flushed ; 
his  utterance  was  thick — the  look  of  him  was 
the  look  of  a  man  who  had  been  drinking  hard. 

"Well,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  "what  brings 
you  back?" 

"Julius  has  a  proposal  to  make  to  you,"  Lady 
Holchester  answered.  "I  approve  of  it;  and  I 
have  come  with  him." 

Geoffrey  turned  to  his  brother. 

"What  can  a  rich  man  like  you  want  of  a  poor 
devil  like  me?"  he  asked. 

"I  want  to  do  you  justice,  Geoffrey — if  5-ou 
will  help  me,  by  meeting  me  half  way.  Our 
mother  has  told  you  about  the  will?" 

"I'm  not  down  for  a  halfpenny  in  the  will.  I 
expected  as  much.     Goon." 

"You  are  wrong — you  ai^e  down  in  it.  There 
is  liberal  provision  made  for  you  in  a  codicil. 
Unhappily,  my  father  died  without  signing  it. 
It  is  needless  to  say  that  I  consider  it  binding 
on  me  for  all  that.  I  am  ready  to  do  for  you 
what  your  father  would  have  done  for  you ;  and 
I  only  ask  for  one  concession  in  return." 


MO  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"What  may  that  be?" 

"You  are  living  here  very  unhappily,  Geof- 
frey, with  your  wife." 

"Who  says  so?     I  don't,  for  one." 

Julius  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  his  brother's 
arm. 

"Don't  trifle  with  such  a  serious  matter  as 
this,"  he  said.  "Your  marriage  is,  in  every 
sense  of  the  word,  a  misfortune — not  only  to 
you  but  to  your  wife.  It  is  impossible  that  you 
can  live  together.  I  have  come  here  to  ask  you 
to  consent  to  a  separation.  Do  that,  and  the 
provision  made  for  you  in  the  unsigned  codicil 
is  yours.     What  do  you  say?" 

Geoffrey  shook  his  brother's  hand  off  his  arm. 

"I  say — No!"  he  answered. 

Lady  Holchester  interfered  for  the  first  time. 

"You  brother's  generous  offer  deserves  a  bet- 
ter answer  than  that,"  she  said. 

"My  answer,"  reiterated  Geoffrey,  "is — "NTo!" 

He  sat  between  them  with  his  clinched  fists 
resting  on  his  knees — absolutely  impenetrable  to 
anything  that  either  of  them  could  say. 

"In your  situation,"  said  Julius,  "a  refusal  is 
sheer  madness.     I  won't  accept  it." 

"Do  as  you  like  about  that.  My  mind's  made 
up.  I  won't  let  my  wife  be  taken  away  from 
me.     Here  she  stays. " 

The  brutal  tone  in  which  he  had  made  that 
reply  roused  Lady  Holchester's  indignation. 

"Take  care!"  she  said.  "You  are  not  onh^ 
behaving  with  the  grossest  ingratitude  toward 
your  brother — you  are  forcing  a  suspicion  into 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  241 

your  mother's  mind.     You  have  some  motive 
that  you  are  hiding  from  us. ' ' 

He  turned  on  his  mother  with  a  sudden  feroc- 
ity which  made  Julius  spring  to  his  feet.  The 
next  instant  his  eyes  were  on  the  ground,  and 
the  devil  that  possessed  him  was  quiet  again. 

"Some  motive  I'm  hiding  from  you?"  he  re- 
peated, with  his  head  down  and  his  utterance 
thicker  than  ever.  "I'm  ready  to  have  my 
motive  posted  all  over  London,  if  you  like.  I'm 
fond  of  her." 

He  looked  up  as  he  said  the  last  words.  Lady 
Holchester  turned  away  her  head — recoiling 
from  her  own  son.  So  overwhelming  was  the 
shock  inflicted  on  her  that  even  the  strongly 
rooted  prejudice  which  Mrs.  Glenarm  had  im- 
planted in  her  mind  yielded  to  it.  At  that 
moment  she  absolutely  pitied  Anne ! 

"Poor  creature!"  said  Lady  Holchester. 

He  took  instant  offense  at  those  two  words. 
'^I  won't  have  my  wife  pitied  by  anybody." 
With  that  reply  he  dashed  into  the  passage,  and 
called  out,  "Anne!  come  down!" 

Her  soft  voice  answered;  her  light  footfall 
was  heard  on  the  stairs.  She  came  into  the 
room.  Julius  advanced,  took  her  hand,  and  held 
it  kindly  in  his.  "We  are  having  a  little  familj^ 
discussion,"  he  said,  trying  to  give  her  confi- 
dence. "And  Geoffrey  is  getting  hot  over  it,  as 
usual." 

Geoffrey  appealed  sternly  to  his  mother. 

"Look  at  her!"  he  said.  "Is  she  starved?  Is 
she  in  rags?     Is  she  covered  with  bruises?"    He 


242  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

turned  to  Anne.  "They  have  come  here  to  pro- 
pose a  separation.  They  both  believe  I  hate  you. 
I  don't  hate  you.  I'm  a  good  Christian.  I  owe 
it  to  you  that  I'm  cut  out  of  my  father's  will.  I 
forgive  you  that.  I  owe  it  to  you  that  I've  lost 
the  chance  of  marrying  a  woman  with  ten  thou- 
sand a  year.  I  forgive  you  that.  I'm  not  a 
man  who  does  things  by  halves.  I  said  it  should 
be  my  endeavor  to  make  you  a  good  husband.  I 
said  it  was  my  wish  to  make  it  up.  Well!  I  am 
as  good  as  my  word.  And  what's  the  conse- 
quence? I  am  insulted.  My  mother  comes  here, 
and  my  brother  comes  here — and  they  offer  me 
money  to  part  from  you.  Mone}^  be  hanged! 
I'U  be  beholden  to  nobody.  I'll  get  my  own 
living.  Shame  on  the  people  who  interfere  be- 
tween man  and  wife!  Shame! — that's  what  I 
say — shame!" 

Anne  looked  for  an  explanation  from  her  hus- 
band to  her  husband's  mother. 

"Have  you  proposed  a  separation  between 
us?"  she  asked. 

"Yes — on  terms  of  the  utmost  advantage  to 
my  son;  arranged  with  every  possible  consider- 
ation toward  you.  Is  there  any  objection  on 
your  side?" 

"Oh,  Lady  Holchester!  is  it  necessary  "to  ask 
me?     What  does  he  say?" 

"He  has  refused." 

"Refused?" 

"Yes,"  said  Geoffrey.  "I  don't  go  back  from 
my  word ;  I  stick  to  what  I  said  this  morning. 
It's  my  endeavor  to  make  you  a  good  husband. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  243 

It's  my  wish  to  make  it  up."  He  paused,  and 
then  added  his  last  reason:  "I'm  fond  of  you." 

Their  eyes  met  as  he  said  it  to  her.  JuHus 
felt  Anne's  hand  suddenly  tighten  round  his. 
The  desperate  grasp  of  the  frail  cold  fingers,  the 
imploring  terror  in  the  gentle,  sensitive  face  as 
it  slowly  turned  his  way,  said  to  him  as  if  in 
words,  "Don't  leave  me  friendless  to-night!" 

"If  you  both  stop  here  till  doomsday,"  said 
Geoffrey,  "you'll  get  nothing  more  out  of  me. 
You  have  had  my  reply." 

With  that  he  seated  himself  doggedly  in  a 
corner  of  the  room;  waiting — ostentatiously 
waiting — for  his  mother  and  his  brother  to  take 
their  leave.  The  position  was  serious.  To  argue 
the  matter  with  him  that  night  was  hopeless. 
To  invite  Sir  Patrick's  interference  would  only 
be  to  provoke  his  savage  temper  to  a  new  out- 
break. On  the  other  hand,  to  leave  the  helpless 
woman,  after  what  had  passed,  without  another 
effort  to  befriend  her,  was,  in  her  situation,  an 
act  of  downright  inhumanity,  and  nothing  less. 
Julius  took  the  one  way  out  of  the  difficulty  that 
was  left — ^the  one  way  worthy  of  him  as  a  com- 
passionate and  an  honorable  man. 

"We  will  drop  it  for  to-night,  Geoffrey,"  he 
said.  "But  I  am  not  the  less  resolved,  in  spite 
of  all  that  you  have  said,  to  return  to  the  sub- 
ject to-morrow.  It  would  save  me  some  incon- 
venience— a  second  journey  here  from  town,  and 
then  going  back  again  to  my  engagements — if  I 
stayed  with  you  to-night.  Can  you  give  me  a 
bed?" 


244  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

A  look  flashed  on  him  from  Anne,  which 
thanked  him  as  no  words  could  have  thanked 
him. 

"Give  you  a  bed?"  repeated  Geoffrey.  He 
checked  himself,  on  the  point  of  refusing.  His 
mother  was  watching  him ;  his  wife  was  watch- 
ing him — and  his  wife  knew  that  the  room  above 
them  was  a  room  to  spare.  "All  right!"  he  re- 
sumed in  another  tone,  with  his  eye  on  his 
mother.  "There's  an  empty  room  upstairs. 
Have  it,  if  you  like.  You  won't  find  I've 
changed  my  mind  to-morrow;  but  that's  your 
look-out.  Stop  here,  if  the  fancy  takes  you. 
"  I've  no  objection.  It  don't  matter  to  Me. — Will 
you  trust  his  lordship  under  my  roof?"  he  added, 
addressing  his  mother.  "I  might  have  some 
motive  that  I'm  hiding  from  3^ou,  you  know!" 
Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  turned  to 
Anne.  "Go  and  tell  old  Dummy  to  put  the 
sheets  on  the  bed.  Say  there's  a  live  lord  in  the 
house — she's  to  send  in  something  devilish  good 
for  supper!" 

He  burst  fiercely  into  a  forced  laugh.  Lady 
Holchester  rose  at  the  moment  when  Anne  was 
leaving  the  room. 

"I  shall  not  be  here  when  you  return,"  she 
said.     "Let  me  bid  you  good-night." 

She  shook  hands  with  Anne — giving  her  Sir 
Patrick's  note,  unseen,  at  the  same  moment. 
Anne  left  the  room.  Without  addressing  an- 
other word  to  her  second  son,  Lady  Holchester 
beckoned  to  Julius  to  give  her  his  arm.  "You 
have    acted    nobly  toward    your  brother,"  she 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  5^45 

said  to  him.  "My  one  comfort  and  my  one 
hope,  Julius,  are  in  you."  They  went  out  to- 
gether to  the  gate,  Geoffrey  following  them  with 
the  key  in  his  hand.  "Don't  be  too  anxious," 
Julius  whispered  to  his  mother.  "I  will  keep 
the  drink  out  of  his  way  to-night,  and  I  will 
bring  you  a  better  account  of  him  to-morrow. 
Explain  everything  to  Sir  Patrick  as  you  go 
home."  He  handed  Lady  Holchester  into  the 
carriage,  and  re-entered,  leaving  Geoffrey  to 
lock  the  gate. 

The  brothers  returned  in  silence  to  the  cot- 
tage. Julius  had  concealed  it  from  his  mother 
— but  he  was  seriously  uneasy  in  secret.  Nat- 
urally prone  to  look  at  all  things  on  their  brighter 
side,  he  could  place  no  hopeful  interpretation  on 
what  Geoffrey  had  said  and  done  that  night. 
The  conviction  that  he  was  deliberately  acting  a 
part,  in  his  present  relations  with  his  wife,  for 
some  abominable  purpose  of  his  own,  had  rooted 
itself  firmly  in  Julius.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
experience  of  his  brother,  the  pecuniary  consid- 
eration was  not  the  uppermost  consideration  in 
Geoffrey's  mind. 

They  went  back  into  the  drawing-room. 

' '  What  will  you  have  to  drink  ? ' '  said  Geoffrey. 

"Nothing."' 

"You  won't  keep  me  company  over  a  drop  of 
brandy-and-  water  ? ' ' 

"No.  You  have  had  enough  brandy-and- 
water. ' ' 

After  a  moment  of  frowning  self-consideration 
in  the  glass,  Geoffrey  abruptly  agreed  with  Ju- 


24fi  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

lius.  "I  look  like  it,"  he  said.  "I'll  soon  put 
that  right. ' '  He  disappeared,  and  returned  with 
a  wet  towel  tied  round  his  head.  "What  will 
you  do  while  the  women  are  getting  your  bed 
ready?  Liberty  Hall  here.  I've  taken  to  cul- 
tivating my  mind — I'm  a  reformed  character, 
you  know,  now  I'm  a  married  man.  You  do 
what  you  like.     I  shall  read." 

He  turned  to  the  side-table;  and,  producing 
the  volumes  of  the  Newgate  Calendar,  gave  one 
to  his  brother.     Julius  handed  it  back  again. 

"You  won't  cultivate  your  mind,"  he  said, 
"with  such  a  book  as  that.  Vile  actions,  re- 
corded in  vile  English,  make  vile  reading,  Geof- 
frey, in  every  sense  of  the  word." 

"It  will  do  for  me.  I  don't  know  good  En- 
glish when  I  see  it." 

With  that  frank  acknowledgment — to  which 
the  great  majority  of  his  companions  at  school 
and  college  might  have  subscribed  without  doing 
the  slightest  injustice  to  the  present  state  of  En- 
glish education — Geoffrey  drew  his  chair  to  the 
table,  and  opened  one  of  the  volumes  of  his  rec- 
ord of  crime. 

The  evening  newspaper  was  lying  on  the  sofa. 
Julius  took  it  up,  and  seated  himself  opposite  to 
his  brother.  He  noticed,  with  some  surprise, 
that  Geoif rey  appeared  to  have  a  special  object 
in  consulting  his  book.  Instead  of  beginning  at 
the  first  page,  he  ran  the  leaves  through  his 
fingers,  and  turned  them  down  at  certain  places 
before  he  entered  on  his  reading.  If  Julius  had 
looked  over  his  brother's  shoulder,   instead  of 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  24:7 

only  looking  at  him  across  the  table,  he  would 
have  seen  that  Geoffrey  passed  by  all  the  lighter 
crimes  reported  in  the  Calendar,  and  marked  for 
his  own  private  reading  the  cases  of  murder  only. 


CHAPTER   THE   FIFTY-SECOND. 

THE    APPARITION. 

The  night  had  advanced.  It  was  close  on 
twelve  o'clock,  when  Anne  heard  the  servant's 
voice,  outside  her  bedroom  door,  asking  leave  to 
speak  with  her  for  a  moment. 

"What  is  it?" 

"The  gentleman  downstairs  wishes  to  see  you, 
ma'am." 

"Do  you  mean  Mr.  Delamayn's  brother?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  is  Mr.  Delamayn?" 

"Out  in  the  garden,  ma'am." 

Anne  went  downstairs,  and  found  Julius  alone 
in  the  drawing-room. 

"I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,"  he  said.  "I  am 
afraid  Geoffrey  is  ill.  The  landlady  has  gone  to 
bed,  I  am  told — and  I  don't  know  where  to  apply 
for  medical  assistance.  Do  you  know  of  any 
doctor  in  the  neighborhood?" 

Anne,  like  Julius,  was  a  perfect  stranger  to 
the  neighborhood.  She  suggested  making  in- 
quiry of  the  servant.     On  speaking  to  the  girl, 

it  turned  out  that  she  knew  of  a  medical  man, 
Vol.  4  9— 


248  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

living  within  ten  minutes'  walk  of  the  cottage. 
She  could  give  plain  directions  enabling  any  per- 
son to  find  the  place — but  she  was  afraid,  at  that 
hour  of  the  night  and  in  that  lonely  neighbor- 
hood, to  go  out  by  herself. 

"Is  he  seriously  ill?"  Anne  asked. 

"He  is  in  such  a  state  of  nervous  irritability," 
said  Julius,  "that  he  can't  remain  still  for  two 
moments  together  in  the  same  place.  It  began 
with  incessant  restlessness  while  he  was  reading 
here.  I  persuaded  him  to  go  to  bed.  He  couldn't 
lie  still  for  an  instant — he  came  down  again, 
burning  with  fever,  and  more  restless  than  ever: 
He  is  out  in  the  garden  in  spite  of  everything  I 
could  do  to  prevent  him;  trying,  as  he  says,  to 
'run  it  off.'  It  appears  to  be  serious  to  me. 
Come  and  judge  for  j'ourself." 

He  led  Anne  into  the  next  room,  and,  opening 
the  shutter,  pointed  to  the  garden. 

The  clouds  had  cleared  off ;  the  night  was  fine. 
The  clear  starlight  showed  Geoffrey,  stripped  to 
his  shirt  and  drawers,  running  round  and  round 
the  garden.  He  apparently  belieA^ed  himself  to 
be  contending  at  the  Fullipaii  foot-race :  at  times, 
as  the  white  figure  circled  round  and  round  in 
the  starlight,  they  heard  him  cheering  for  "the 
South."  The  slackening  thump  of  his  feet  on 
the  ground,  the  heavier  and  heavier  gasps  in 
which  he  drew  his  breath,  as  he  passed  the  win- 
dow, gave  warning  that  his  strength  was  failing 
him.  Exhaustion,  if  it  led  to  no  worse  conse- 
quences, would  force  him  to  return  to  the  house. 
In  the  state  of  his  brain  at  that  moment,  who 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  249 

could  say  what  the  result  might  be,  if  medical 
help  was  not  called  in? 

"I  will  go  for  the  doctor,"  said  Julius,  "if 
you  don't  mind  my  leaving  you." 

It  was  impossible  for  Anne  to  set  any  appre- 
hensions of  her  own  against  the  plain  necessity 
for  summoning  assistance.  They  found  the  key 
of  the  gate  in  the  pocket  of  Geoffrey's  coat  up- 
stairs. Anne  went  with  Julius  to  let  him  out. 
"How  can  I  thank  you!"  she  said,  gratefully. 
"What  should  I  have  done  without  you!" 

"I  won't  be  a  moment  longer  than  I  can  help," 
he  answered,  and  left  her. 

She  secured  the  gate  again,  and  went  back  to 
the  cottage.  The  servant  met  her  at  the  door, 
and  proposed  calling  up  Hester  Dethridge. 

"We  don't  know  what  the  master  may  do 
while  his  brother's  awaj^,"  said  the  girl.  "And 
one  more  of  us  isn't  one  too  many,  when  we  are 
only  women  in  the  house." 

"You  are  quite  right,"  said  Anne.  "Wake 
your  mistress." 

After  ascending  the  stairs,  they  looked  out 
into  the  garden,  through  the  window  at  the  end 
of  the  passage  on  the  upper  floor.  He  was  still 
going  round  and  round,  but  very  slowly:  his 
pace  was  fast  slackening  to  a  walk. 

Anne  went  back  to  her  room  and  waited  near 
the  open  door — ready  to  close  and  fasten  it  in- 
stantly if  anything  occurred  to  alarm  her. 
"How  changed  I  am!"  she  thought  to  herself . 
"Everything  frightens  me  now." 

The  inference  was  the  natural  one,  but  not  the 


250  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

true  one.  The  change  was  not  in  herself,  but  in 
the  situation  in  which  she  was  placed.  Her  posi- 
tion during  the  investigation  at  Lady  Lundie's 
house  had  tried  her  moral  courage  only.  It  had 
exacted  from  her  one  of  those  noble  efforts  of 
self-sacrifice  which  the  hidden  forces  in  a  wo- 
man's nature  are  essentially  capable  of  making. 
Her  position  at  the  cottage  tried  her  physical 
courage :  it  called  on  her  to  rise  superior  to  the 
sense  of  actual  bodily  danger  —while  that  danger 
was  lurking  in  the  dark.  There,  the  woman's 
nature  sank  under  the  stress  laid  on  it — there, 
her  courage  could  strike  no  root  in  the  strength 
of  her  love — there,  the  animal  instincts  were  the 
instincts  appealed  to;  and  the  firmness  wanted 
was  the  firmness  of  a  man. 

Hester  Dethridge's  door  opened.  She  walked 
straight  into  Anne's  room. 

The  yellow,  clay-cold  color  of  her  face  showed 
a  faint  flush  of  warmth;  its  death-like  stillness 
was  stirred  by  a  touch  of  life.  The  stony  eyes, 
fixed  as  ever  in  their  gaze,  shone  strangely  with 
a  dim  inner  luster.  Ber  gray  hair,  so  neatly 
arranged  at  other  times,  was  in  disorder  under 
her  cap.  All  her  movements  were  quicker  than 
usual.  Something  had  roused  the  stagnant  vital- 
ity in  the  woman — it  was  working  in  her  mind ; 
it  was  forcing  itself  outward  into  her  face.  The 
servants  at  Windygates,  in  past  times,  had  seen 
these  signs,  and  had  known  them  for  a  warning 
to  leave  Hester  Dethridge  to  herself. 

Anne  asked  her  if  she  had  heard  what  had 
happened. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  251 

She  bowed  her  head. 

"I  hope  you  don't  mind  being  disturbed?" 

She  wrote  on  her  slate:  "I'm  glad  to  be  dis- 
turbed. I  have  been  dreaming  bad  dreams.  It's 
good  for  me  to  be  wakened,  when  sleep  takes  me 
backward  in  my  life.  "What's  wrong  with  you*? 
Frightened?" 

"Yes." 

She  wrote  again,  and  pointed  toward  the  gar- 
den with  one  hand,  while  she  held  the  slate  up 
with  the  other:  "Frightened  of  him  f 

"Terribly  frightened." 

She  wrote  for  the  third  time,  and  offered  the 
slate  to  Anne  with  a  ghastly  smile:  "I  have 
been  through  it  all,  I  know.  You're  only  at 
the  beginning  now.  He'll  put  the  wrinkles  in 
your  face,  and  the  gray  in  your  hair.  There 
will  come  a  time  when  j^ou'll  wish  yourself  dead 
and  buried.  You  will  live  through  it,  for  all 
that.     Look  at  Me." 

As  she  read  the  last  three  words,  Anne  heard 
the  garden  door  below  oj^ened  and  banged  to 
again.  She  caught  Hester  Dethridge  by  the 
arm,  and  listened.  The  tramp  of  Geoffrey's  feet, 
staggering  heavily  in  the  passage,  gave  token  of 
his  approach  to  the  stairs.  He  was  talking  to 
himself,  still  possessed  by  the  delusion  that  he 
was  at  the  foot-race.  "Five  to  four  on  Dela- 
mayn,  Delamayn's  won.  Three  cheers  for  the 
South,  and  one  cheer  more.  Devilish  long  race. 
Night  already !     Perry!  where's  Perry?" 

He  advanced,  staggering  from  side  to  side  of 
the  passage.     The  stairs  below  creaked  as  he  set 


'Zb'Z  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

his  foot  on  them.  Hester  Dethridge  dragged 
herself  free  from  Anne,  advanced,  with  her  can- 
dle in  her  hand,  and  threw  open  Geoffrey's  bed= 
room  door ;  returned  to  the  head  of  the  stairs ; 
and  stood  there,  firm  as  a  rock,  waiting  for  him. 
He  looked  up,  as  he  set  his  foot  on  the  next  stair, 
and  met  the  view  of  Hester's  face,  brightly 
illuminated  by  the  candle,  looking  down  at  him. 
On  the  instant  he  stopped,  rooted  to  the  place  on 
which  he  stood.  "Ghost!  witch!  devil!"  he 
cried  out,  "take  your  eyes  off  me!"  He  shook 
his  fist  at  her  furiously,  with  an  oath — sprang 
back  into  the  hall — and  shut  himself  into  the 
dining-room  from  the  sight  of  her.  The  panic 
which  had  seized  him  once  already  in  the  kitchen- 
garden  at  Windy  gates,  under  the  eyes  of  the 
dumb  cook,  had  fastened  its  hold  on  him  once 
more.  Frightened — absolutely  frightened — of 
Hester  Dethridge! 

The  gate-bell  rang.  Julius  had  returned  with 
the  doctor. 

Anne  gave  the  key  to  the  girl  to  let  them  in. 
Hester  wrote  on  her  slate,  as  composedly  as  if 
nothing  had  happened :  "They'll  find  me  in  the 
kitchen,  if  they  want  me.  I  shan't  go  back  to 
my  bedroom.  My  bedroom's  full  of  bad  dreams. ' ' 
She  descended  the  stairs.  Anne  waited  in  the 
upper  passage,  looking  over  into  the  hall  below. 
"Your  brother  is  in  the  drawing-room,"  she 
called  down  to  Julius.  "The  landlady  is  in  the 
kitchen,  if  you  want  her."  She  returned  to  her 
room,  and  waited  for  what  might  happen  next. 
After  a  brief  interval  she  heard  the  drawing- 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  353 

room  door  open,  and  the  voices  of  the  men  out- 
side. There  seemed  to  be  some  difficulty  in 
persuading  Geoffrey  to  ascend  the  stairs;  he 
persisted  in  declaring  that  Hester  Dethridge 
was  waiting  for  him  at  the  top  of  them.  After 
a  little  they  persuaded  him  that  the  way  was 
free.  Anne  heard  them  ascend  the  stairs  and 
close  his  bedroom  door. 

Another  and  a  longer  interval  passed  before 
the  door  opened  again.  The  doctor  was  going 
away.  He  said  his  parting  words  to  Julius  in 
the  passage.  "Look  in  at  him  from  time  to  time 
through  the  night,  and  give  him  another  dose  of 
the  sedative  mixture  if  he  wakes.  There  is 
nothing  to  be  alarmed  about  in  the  restlessness 
and  the  fever.  The}^  are  only  the  outward  man- 
ifestations of  some  serious  mischief  hidden  under 
them.  Send  for  the  medical  man  who  has  last 
attended  him.  Knowledge  of  the  patient's  con- 
stitution is  very  important  knowledge  in  this 
case." 

As  Julius  returned  from  letting  the  doctor  out, 
Anne  met  him  in  the  hall.  She  was  at  once 
struck  b}^  the  worn  look  in  his  face,  and  by  the 
fatigue  which  expressed  itself  in  all  his  move- 
ments. 

"You  want  rest,"  she  said.    "Pray go  to  your 
room.  I  have  heard  what  the  doctor  said  to  you. . 
Leave  it  to  the  landlady  and  to  me  to  sit  up." 

Julius  owned  that  he  had  been  traveling  from 
Scotland  during  the  previous  night.  But  he  was 
unwilling  to  abandon  the  responsibility  of  watch- 
ing his  brother.     "Yo-u  are  not  strong  enough, 


254  WORKS   OF   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

I  am  sure,  to  take  my  place,"  he  said,  kindly. 
"And  Geoffrey  has  some  unreasoning  horror  of 
the  landlady,  which  makes  it  very  undesirable 
that  he  should  see  her  again,  in  his  present 
state.  I  will  go  up  to  my  room,  and  rest  on  the 
bed.  If  you  hear  anything,  you  have  only  to 
come  and  call  me." 

An  hour  more  passed. 

Anne  went  to  Geoffrey's  door  and  listened. 
He  was  stirring  in  his  bed,  and  muttering  to 
himself.  She  went  on  to  the  door  of  the  next 
room,  which  Julius  had  left  partly  open.  Fa- 
tigue had  overpowered  him;  she  heard,  within, 
the  quiet  breathing  of  a  man  in  a  sound  sleep. 
Anne  turned  back  again,  resolved  not  to  disturb 
him. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs  she  hesitated — not 
knowing  what  to  do.  Her  horror  of  entering 
Geoffrey's  room  by  herself  was  insurmountable. 
But  who  else  was  to  do  it?  The  girl  had  gone 
to  bed.  The  reason  which  Julius  had  given  for 
not  employing  the  assistance  of  Hester  Dethridge 
was  unanswerable.  She  listened  again  at  Geof- 
frey's door.  No  sound  was  now  audible  in  the 
room  to  a  person  in  the  passage  outside.  Would 
it  be  well  to  look  in,  and  make  sure  that  he  had 
only  fallen  asleep  again?  She  hesitated  once 
more — she  was  still  hesitating,  when  Hester 
Dethridge  appeared  from  the  kitchen. 

She  joined  Anne  a.t  the  top  of  the  stairs — looked 
at  her — and  wrote  a  line  on  her  slate :  ' '  Fright- 
ened to  go  in?     Leave  it  to  Me." 

The  silence  in  the  room  justified  the  inference 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  255 

that  he  was  asleep.  If  Hester  looked  in,  Hester 
could  do  no  harm  how.  Anne  accepted  the  pro- 
posal. 

"If  you  find  anything  wrong,"  she  said, 
"don't  disturb  his  brother.     Come  to  me  first." 

With  that  caution  she  withdrew.  It  was  then 
nearl}'  two  in  the  morning.  She,  like  Julius, 
was  sinking  from  fatigue.  After  waiting  a  lit- 
tle, and  hearing  nothing,  she  threw  herself  on 
the  sofa  in  her  room.  If  anything  happened,  a 
knock  at  the  door  would  rouse  her  instantly. 

In  the  meanwhile  Hester  Dethridge  opened 
Geoffrey's  bedroom  door  and  went  in. 

The  movements  and  the  mutterings  which 
Anne  had  heard  had  been  movements  and  mut- 
terings in  his  sleep.  The  doctor's  composing 
draught,  partially  disturbed  in  its  operation  for 
the  moment  only,  had  recovered  its  sedative  in- 
fluence on  his  brain.  Geoffrey  was  in  a  deep 
and  quiet  sleep. 

Hester  stood  near  the  door,  looking  at  him. 
She  moved  to  go  out  again — stopped — and  fixed 
her  eyes  suddenly  on  one  of  the  inner  corners  of 
the  room. 

The  same  sinister  change  which  had  passed 
over  her  once  already  in  Geoffrey's  presence, 
when  they  met  in  the  kitchen-garden  at  Wind}^- 
gates,  now  passed  over  her  again.  Her  closed  lips 
dropped  apart.  Her  eyes  slowly  dilated — moved, 
inch  by  inch,  from  the  corner,  following  some- 
thing along  the  empty  wall,  in  the  direction  of 
the  bed — stopped  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  exactly 


256  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

above  Geoffrey's  sleeping  face  —  stared,  rigid 
and  glittering,  as  if  they  saw  a  sight  of  horror 
close  over  it.  He  sighed  faintly  in  his  sleep. 
The  sound,  slight  as  it  was,  broke  the  spell  that 
held  her.  She  slowly  lifted  her  withered  hands, 
and  wrung  them  above  her  head :  fled  back  across 
the  passage ;  and,  rushing  into  her  room,  sank 
on  her  knees  at  the  bedside. 

Now,  in  the  dead  of  night,  a  strange  thing 
happened.  Now,  in  the  silence  and  the  dark- 
ness, a  hideous  secret  was  revealed- 

In  the  sanctuary  of  her  own  room — with  all 
the  other  inmates  of  the  house  sleeping  round 
her — the  dumb  woman  threw  off  the  mysterious 
and  terrible  disguise  under  which  she  deliberately 
isolated  herself  among  her  fellow-creatures  in 
the  hours  of  the  day.  Hester  Dethridge  spoke. 
In  low,  thick,  smothered  accents — in  a  wild  lit- 
any of  her  own — she  prayed.  She  called  upon 
the  mercy  of  God  for  deliverance  from  herself; 
for  a  dehverance  from  the  possession  of  the  Devil ; 
for  blindness  to  fall  on  her,  for  death  to  strike 
her,  so  that  she  might  never  see  that  unnamed 
Horror  more !  Sobs  shook  the  whole  frame  of 
the  stony  woman,  whom  nothing  human  moved 
at  other  times.  Tears  poured  over  those  claj^- 
cold  cheeks.  One  by  one  the  frantic  words  of 
her  prayer  died  away  on  her  lips.  Fierce  shud- 
dering fits  shook  her  from  head  to  foot.  She 
started  up  from  her  knees  in  the  darkness. 
Light !  light !  light !  The  unnamed  Horror  was 
behind  her  in  his  room.  The  unnamed  Horror 
v/as  looking  at  her  through  his  open  door.     She 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  257 

found  the  match-box,  and  lighted  the  candle  on 
her  table — lighted  the  two  other  candles  set  for 
ornament  only  on  the  mantel-piece — and  looked 
all  round  the  brightly -lighted  little  room.  ' '  Aha !" 
she  said  to  herself,  wiping  the  cold  sweat  of  her 
agonj^  from  her  face.  "Candles  to  other  people. 
God's  light  to  me.  Nothing  to  be  seen!  nothing 
to  be  seen!"  Taking  one  of  the  candles  in  her 
hand,  she  crossed  the  passage,  with  her  head 
down,  turned  her  back  on  Geoffrey's  open  door, 
closed  it  quickly  and  softly,  stretching  out  her 
hand  behind  her,  and  retreated  again  to  her  own 
room.  She  fastened  the  door,  and  took  an  ink- 
bottle  and  a  pen  from  the  mantel-piece.  After 
considering  for  a  moment,  she  hung  a  handker- 
chief over  the  key- hole,  and  laid  an  old  shawl 
longwise  at  the  bottom  of  the  door,  so  as  to  hide 
the  light  in  her  room  from  the  observation  of  any 
one  in  the  house  who  might  wake  and  come  that 
way.  This  done,  she  opened  the  upper  part  of 
her  dress,  and,  slipping  her  fingers  into  a  secret 
pocket  hidden  in  the  inner  side  of  her  stays,  pro- 
duced from  it  some  neatly  folded  leaves  of  thin 
paper.  Spread  out  on  the  table,  the  leaves  re- 
vealed themselves — all  but  the  last — as  closely 
covered  with  writing,  in  her  own  hand. 

The  first  leaf  was  headed  by  this  inscription : 
"My  Confession.  To  be  put  into  my  coffin,  and 
to  be  buried  with  me  when  I  die." 

She  turned  the  manuscript  over,  so  as  to  get 
at  the  last  page.  The  gi-eater  part  of  it  was  left 
blank.  A  few  lines  of  writing,  at  the  top,  bore 
the  date  of  the  day  of  the  week  and  month  on 


258  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

which  Lady  Lundie  had  dismissed  her  from  her 
situation  at  Windygates.  The  entry  was  ex- 
pressed in  these  terms : 

"I  have  seen  it  again  to-day.  The  first  time 
for  two  months  past.  In  the  kitchen-garden. 
Standing  behind  the  young  gentleman  whose 
name  is  Delamaj^n.  Resist  the  Devil,  and  he 
will  flee  from  you.  I  have  resisted.  By  prayer. 
By  meditation  in  solitude.  By  reading  good 
books.  I  have  left  my  place.  I  have  lost  sight 
of  the  young  gentleman  for  good.  Who  will  it 
stand  behind?  and  point  to  next?  Lord  have 
mercy  upon  me!     Christ  have  mercy  upon  me!" 

Under  this  she  now  added  the  following  lines, 
first  carefully  prefixing  the  date : 

"I  have  seen  it  again  to-night.  I  notice  one 
awful  change.  It  has  appeared  twice  behind 
the  same  person.  This  has  never  happened  be- 
fore. This  makes  the  temptation  more  terrible 
than  ever.  To-night,  in  his  bedroom,  between 
the  bed-head  and  the  wall,  I  have  seen  it  behind 
young  Mr.  Delamajm  again.  The  head  just 
above  his  face,  and  the  finger  pointing  down- 
ward at  his  throat.  Twice  behind  this  one  man. 
And  never  twice  behind  any  other  living  creature 
till  now.  If  I  see  it  a  third  time  behind  him — 
Lord  deliver  me !  Christ  deliver  me !  I  daren't 
think  of  it.  He  shall  leave  my  cottage  to-mor- 
row. I  would  fain  have  drawn  back  from  the 
bargain,  when  the  stranger  took  the  lodgings  for 
his  friend,  and  the  friend  proved  to  be  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn.  I  didn't  like  it,  even  then.  After  the 
warning  to-night,  my  mind  is  made  up.     He 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  259 

shall  go.  He  may  have  his  money  back,  if  he 
likes.  He  shall  go.  (Memorandum:  Felt  the 
temptation  whispering  this  time,  and  the  terror 
tearing  at  me  all  the  while,  as  I  have  never  felt 
them  yet.  Resisted,  as  before,  bj^  prayer.  Am 
now  going  downstairs  to  meditate  against  it  in 
solitude — to  fortify  myself  against  it  by  good 
books.     Lord  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner!)" 

In  those  words  she  closed  the  entry,  and  put 
the  manuscript  back  in  the  secret  pocket  in  her 
stays. 

She  went  down  to  the  little  room^  looking  on 
the  garden,  which  had  once  been  her  brother's 
study.  There  she  lighted  a  lamp,  and  took  some 
books  from  a  shelf  that  hung  against  the  wall. 
The  books  were  the  Bible,  a  volume  of  Metho- 
dist sermons,  and  a  set  of  collected  Memoirs  of 
Methodist  saints.  Ranging  these  last  carefull}^ 
round  her,  in  an  order  of  her  ovvn,  Hester  Deth- 
ridge  sat  down  with  the  Bible  on  her  lap  to 
watch  out  the  night. 


CHAPTER  THE   FIFTY-THIRD. 

What  had  happened  in  the  hours  of  darkness? 

This  was  Anne's  first  thought,  when  the  sun- 
light poured  in  at  her  window,  and  woke  her 
the  next  morning. 

She  made  immediate  inquiry  of  the  servant. 
The  girl  could  only  speak  for  herself.  Nothing 
had  occurred  to  disturb  her  after  she  had  gone  to 


260  WORKS    OF    WILKIE   COLLINS. 

bed.  Her  master  was  still,  she  believed,  iu  his 
room.  Mrs.  Dethridge  was  at  her  work  in  the 
kitchen. 

Anne  went  to  the  kitchen.  Hester  Dethridge 
was  at  her  usual  occupation  at  that  time — pre- 
paring the  breakfast.  The  slight  signs  of  ani- 
mation which  Anne  had  noticed  in  her  when 
they  last  met  appeared  no  more.  The  dull  look 
was  back  again  in  her  stony  eyes ;  the  lifeless 
torpor  possessed  all  her  movements.  Asked  if 
anything  had  happened  in  the  night,  she  slowlj^ 
shook  her  stolid  head,  slowly  made  the  sign 
with  her  hand  which  signified,  "Nothing." 

Leaving  the  kitchen,  Anne  saw  Julius  in  the 
front  garden.     She  went  out  and  joined  him. 

"I  believe  I  have  to  thank  your  consideration 
for  me  for  some  hours  of  rest,"  he  said.  "It 
was  five  in  the  morning  when  I  woke.  I  hope 
you  had  no  reason  to  regret  having  left  me  to 
sleep?  I  went  into  Geoffrey's  room,  and  found 
him  stirring.  A  second  dose  of  the  mixture  com- 
posed him  again.  The  fever  has  gone.  He  looks 
weaker  and  paler,  but  in  other  respects  like  him- 
self. We  will  return  directly  to  the  question  of 
his  health.  I  have  something  to  say  to  you, 
first,  about  a  change  which  may  be  coming  in 
your  life  here." 

"Has  he  consented  to  the  separation?" 

"No.  He  is  as  obstinate  about  it  as  ever.  I 
have  placed  the  matter  before  him  in  every  pos- 
sible light.  He  still  refuses,  positively  refuses, 
a  provision  which  would  make  him  an  independ- 
ent man  for  life." 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  Ml 

*'Is  it  the  provision  he  might  have  had,  Lord 
Holchester,  if—?" 

"If  he  had  married  Mrs.  GJoTMrm?  No.  It 
is  impossible,  consistently  with  my  duty  to  my 
mother,  and  with  what  I  owe  to  the  position  in 
which  my  father's  death  has  placed  me,  that  I 
can  offer  him  such  a  fortune  as  Mrs.  Glenarm's. 
Still,  it  is  a  handsome  income  which  he  is  mad 
enough  to  refuse.  I  shall  persist  in  pressing  it 
on  him.     He  must  and  shall  take  it." 

Anne  felt  no  reviving  hope  roused  in  her  by 
his  last  words.     She  turned  to  another  subject. 

"You  had  something  to  tell  me,"  she  said. 
"You  spoke  of  a  change." 

"True.  The  landlady  here  is  a  very  strange 
person ;  and  she  has  done  a  very  strange  thing. 
She  has  given  Geoffrey  notice  to  quit  these  lodg- 
ings." 

"Notice  to  quit?"  Anne  repeated,  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"Yes.  In  a  formal  letter.  She  handed  it  to 
me  open,  as  soon  as  I  was  up  this  morning.  It 
was  impossible  to  get  any  explanation  from  her. 
The  poor  dumb  creature  simply  wrote  on  her 
slate :  '  He  may  have  his  money  back,  if  he  likes : 
he  shall  go ! '  Greatly  to  my  surprise  (for  the 
woman  inspires  him  with  the  strongest  aversion) 
Geoffrey  refuses  to  go  until  his  term  is  up.  I 
have  made  the  peace  between  them  for  to-day. 
Mrs.  Dethridge,  very  reluctantly,  consents  to 
give  him  four-and-twenty  hours.  And  there  the 
matter  rests  at  present." 

"What  can  her  motive  be?"  said  Anne. 


262  WORKS     OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"It's  useless  to  inquire.  Her  mind  is  evidently 
off  its  balance.  One  thing  is  clear,  Geoffrey 
cannot  keep  you  here  much  longer.  The  coming 
change  will  remove  you  from  this  dismal  place 
— which  is  one  thing  gained.  And  it  is  quite 
possible  that  new  scenes  and  new  surroundings 
may  have  their  influence  on  Geoffrey  for  good. 
His  conduct — otherwise  quite  incomprehensible 
— may  be  the  result  of  some  latent  nervous  irri- 
tation which  medical  help  might  reach.  I  don't 
attempt  to  disguise  from  myself,  or  from  you, 
that  your  position  here  is  a  most  deplorable  one. 
But  before  we  despair  of  the  future,  let  us  at 
least  inquire  whether  there  is  any  explanation  of 
my  brother's  present  behavior  to  be  found  in  the 
present  state  of  my  brother's  health.  I  have 
been  considering  what  the  doctor  said  to  me  last 
night.  The  first  thing  to  do  is  to  get  the  best 
medical  advice  on  Geoffrey's  case  which  is  to  be 
had.     What  do  you  think?" 

"I  daren't  tell  you  what  I  think,  Lord  Hol- 
chester.  I  will  try — it  is  a  very  small  return  to 
make  for  your  kindness — I  will  try  to  see  my  po- 
sition with  your  ej^es,  not  with  mine.  The  best 
medical  advice  that  you  can  obtain  is  the  advice 
of  Mr.  Speedwell.  It  was  he  who  first  made  the 
discovery  that  your  brother  was  in  broken 
health." 

' '  The  very  man  for  our  purpose !  I  will  send 
him  here  to-day  or  to-morrow.  Is  there  anything 
else  I  can  do  for  you?  I  shall  see  Sir  Patrick  as 
soon  as  I  get  to  town.  Have  you  any  message 
for  him?" 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  263 

Anne  hesitated.  Looking  attentively  at  her, 
Julius  noticed  that  slje  changed  color  when  he 
mentioned  Sir  Patrick's  name. 

' '  Will  you  say  that  I  gratefully  thank  him  for 
the  letter  which  Lady  Holchester  was  so  good 
as  to  give  me  last  night,"  she  replied.  "And 
will  you  entreat  him,  from  me,  not  to  expose 
himself,  on  my  account,  to — ' '  she  hesitated,  and 
finished  the  sentence  with  her  eyes  on  the  ground 
— "to  what  might  happen,  if  he  came  here  and 
insisted  on  seeing  me." 

"Does  he  propose  to  do  that?" 

She  hesitated  again.  The  little  nervous  con- 
traction of  her  lips  at  one  side  of  the  mouth  be- 
came more  marked  than  usual.  "He  writes 
that  his  anxiety  is  unendurable,  and  that  he  is 
resolved  to  see  me, ' '  she  answered,  softly. 

' '  He  is  likely  to  hold  to  his  resolution,  I  think, ' ' 
said  Julius.  "When  I  saw  him  yesterday.  Sir 
Patrick  spoke  of  you  in  terms  of  admiration — " 

He  stopped.  The  bright  tears  were  glittering 
on  Anne's  eyelashes ;  one  of  her  hands  was  toy- 
ing nervously  with  something  hidden  (possibly 
Sir  Patrick's  letter)  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 
"I  thank  him  with  my  whole  heart,"  she  said, 
in  low,  faltering  tones.  "But  it  is  best  that  he 
should  not  come  here." 

"Would  you  like  to  write  to  him?" 

"I  think  I  should  prefer  your  giving  him  my 
message." 

Julius  understood  that  the  subject  was  to  pro- 
ceed no  further.  Sir  Patrick's  letter  had  pro- 
duced some  impression  on  her,  which  the  sensi- 


2(54  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

tive  nature  of  the  woman  seemed  to  shrink  from 
acknowledging,  even  to  herself.  They  turned 
back  to  enter  the  cottage.  At  the  door  they  were 
met  by  a  surprise.  Hester  Dethridge,  with  her 
bonnet  on — dressed,  at  that  hour  of  the  morning, 
to  go  out ! 

"Are  you  going  to  market  already?"  Anne 
asked. 

Hester  shook  her  head. 

"When  are  you  coming  back?" 

Hester  wrote  on  her  slate :  ' '  Not  till  the  night- 
time. ' ' 

Without  another  word  of  explanation  she 
pulled  her  veil  down  over  her  face,  and  made  for 
the  gate.  The  key  had  been  left  in  the  dining- 
room  by  Julius,  after  he  had  let  the  doctor  out. 
Hester  had  it  in  her  hand.  She  opened  the  gate, 
and  closed  the  door  after  her,  leaving  the  key  in 
the  lock.  At  the  moment  when  the  door  banged 
to  Geoffrey  appeared  in  the  passage. 

"Where's  the  key?"  he  asked.  "Who's  gone 
out?" 

His  brother  answered  the  question.  He  looked 
backward  and  forward  suspiciously  between 
Julivis  and  Anne.  "What  does  she  go  out  for 
at  this  time?"  he  said.  "Has  she  left  the  house 
to  avoid  Me?" 

Julius  thought  this  the  likely  explanation. 
Geoffrey  went  down  sulkily  to  the  gate  to  lock  it, 
and  returned  to  them,  with  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

"I'm  obliged  to  be  careful  of  the  gate,"  he 
said.  "The  neighborhood  swarms  with  beggars 
and' tramps.     If  you  want  to  go  out,"  he  added, 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  265 

turning  pointedly  to  Anne,  "I'm  at  your  service, 
as  a  good  husband  ought  to  be." 

After  a  hurried  breakfast  Julius  took  his  de- 
parture "I  don't  accept  your  refusal,"  he 
said  to  his  brother,  before  Anne.  "You  will  see 
nie  here  again." 

Geoffrey  obstinately  repeated  the  refusal.  "If 
you  come  here  every  daj^  of  your  life,"  he  said, 
"it  will  be  just  the  same," 

The  gate  closed  on  Julius.  Anne  returned 
again  to  the  solitude  of  her  own  chamber.  Geof- 
frey entered  the  drawing-room,  placed  the  vol- 
umes of  the  Newgate  Calendar  on  the  table  be- 
fore him,  and  resumed  the  reading  which  he  had 
been  unable  to  continue  on  the  evening  before. 

Hour  after  hour  he  doggedly  plodded  through 
one  case  of  murder  after  another.  He  had  read 
one  good  "half  of  the  horrid  chronicle  of  crime 
before  his"  power  of  fixing  his  attention  began  to 
fail  him.  Then  he  lighted  his  pipe,  and  went 
out  to  think  over  it  in  the  garden.  However 
the  atrocities  of  which  he  had  been  reading  might 
differ  in  other  respects,  there  was  one  terrible 
point  of  resemblance,  which  he  had  not  antici- 
pated,, and  in  which  every  one  of  the  cases  agreed. 
Sooner  or  later,  there  was  the  dead  body  always 
certain  to  be  found ;  always  bearing  its  dumb 
witness,  in  the  traces  of  poison  or  in  the  marks 
of  violence,  to  the  crime  committed  on  it. 

He  walked  to  and  fro  slowly,  still  pondering 
over  the  problem  which  had  first  found  its  way 
into  his  mind  when  he  had  stopped  in  the  front 
garden,  and  had  looked  up  at  Anne's  window  in 


26ld  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

the  dark.  "How?"  That  had  been  the  one 
question  before  him,  from  the  time  when  the 
lawyer  had  annihilated  his  hopes  of  a  divorce. 
It  remained  the  one  question  still.  There  was 
no  answer  to  it  in  his  own  brain ;  there  was  no 
answer  to  it  in  the  book  which  he  had  been  con- 
sulting. Everything  was  in  his  favor,  if  he 
could  only  find  out  "how."  He  had  got  his 
hated  wife  upstairs  at  his  mercy — thanks  to  his 
refusal  of  the  money  which  Julius  had  offered 
to  him.  He  was  living  in  a  place  absolutely 
secluded  from  public  observation  on  all  sides  of 
it — thanks  to  his  resolution  to  remain  at  the  cot- 
tage even  after  his  landlady  had  insulted  him  by 
sending  him  a  notice  to  quit.  Everything  had 
been  prepared,  everything  had  been  sacrificed  to 
the  fulfillment  of  one  purpose — and  how  to  attain 
that  purpose  was  still  the  same  impenetrable 
mystery  to  him  which  it  had  been  from  the 
first! 

What  was  the  other  alternative?  To  accept 
the  proposal  which  Julius  had  made.  In  other 
words,  to  give  up  his  vengeance  on  Anne,  and 
to  turn  his  back  on  the  splendid  future  which 
Mrs.  Glenarm's  devotion  still  offered  to  him. 

Never !  He  would  go  back  to  the  books.  He 
was  not  at  the  end  of  them.  The  slightest  hint 
in  the  pages  which  were  still  to  be  read  might 
set  his  sluggish  brain  working  in  the  right  di- 
rection. The  way  to  be  rid  of  her,  without  ex- 
citing the  suspicion  of  any  living  creature,  in 
the  house  or  out  of  it,  was  a  way  that  might  be 
found  yet. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  267 

Could  a  man,  in  his  position  of  life,  reason  in 
this  brutal  manner?  could  he  act  in  this  merci- 
less way?  Surely  the  thought  of  what  he  was 
about  to  do  must  have  troubled  him  this  time ! 

Pause  for  a  moment — and  look  back  at  him  in 
the  past. 

Did  he  feel  any  remorse  when  he  was  plotting 
the  betrayal  of  Arnold  in  the  garden  at  Windy- 
gates?  The  sense  which  feels  remorse  had  not 
been  put  into  him.  What  he  is  now  is  the  legit- 
imate consequence  of  what  he  was  then.  A  far 
more  serious  temptation  is  now  urging  him  to 
commit  a  far  more  serious  crime.  How  is  he  to 
resist?  Will  his  skill  in  rowing  (as  Sir  Patrick 
once  put  it),  his  swiftness  in  running,  his  admi- 
rable capacity  and  endurance  in  other  physical 
exercises,  help  him  to  win  a  purely  moral  vic- 
tory over  his  own  selfishness  and  his  own  cruelty? 
No !  The  moral  and  mental  neglect  of  himself, 
which  the  material  tone  of  public  feeling  about 
him  has  tacitly  encouraged,  has  left  him  at  the 
mercy  of  the  worst  instincts  in  his  nature — of 
all  that  is  most  vile  and  of  all  that  is  most  dan- 
gerous in  the  composition  of  the  natural  man. 
With  the  mass  of  his  fellows,  no  harm  out  of 
the  common  has  come  of  this,  because  no  temp- 
tation out  of  the  common  has  passed  their  way. 
But  with  him,  the  case  is  reversed.  A  tempta- 
tion out  of  the  common  has  passed  his  way. 
How  does  it  find  him  prepared  to  meet  it?  It 
finds  him,  literally  and  exactly,  what  his  train- 
ing has  left  him,  in  the  presence  of  any  tempta- 
tion small  or  great — a  defenseless  man. 


2G8  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Geoffrey  returned  to  the  cottage.  The  servant 
stopped  him  in  the  passage,  to  ask  at  what  time 
he  wished  to  dine.  Instead  of  answering,  he 
inquired  angrily  for  Mrs.  Dethridge.  Mrs.  Deth- 
ridge  had  not  come  back. 

It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  she  had 
been  out  since  the  early  morning.  This  had 
never  happened  before.  Vague  suspicions  of 
her,  one  more  monstrous  than  another,  began  to 
rise  in  Geoffrey's  mind.  Between  the  drink  and 
the  fever,  he  had  been  (as  Julius  had  told  him) 
wandering  in  his  mind  during  a  part  of  the 
night.  Ha{i  he  let  anything  out  in  that  condi- 
tion? Had  Hester  heard  it?  And  was  it,  by 
any  chance,  at  the  bottom  of  her  long  absence 
and  her  notice  to  quit?  He  determined — with- 
out letting  her  see  that  he  suspected  her — to  clear 
up  that  doubt  as  soon  as  his  landlady  returned 
to  the  house. 

The  evening  came.  It  was  past  nine  o'clock 
before  there  was  a  ring  at  the  bell.  The  servant 
came  to  ask  for  the  ke}'".  Geoffrey  rose  to  go  to 
the  gate  himself ^ — and  changed  his  mind  before 
he  left  the  room.  Her  suspicions  might  be 
roused  (supposing  it  to  be  Hester  who  was  wait- 
ing for  admission)  if  he  opened  the  gate  to  her 
when  the  servant  was  there  to  do  it.  He  gave 
the  girl  the  kej^,  and  kept  out  of  sight. 

*******  * 

"Dead  tired!" — the  servant  said  to  herself, 
seeing  her  mistress  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  oyer 
the  gate. 

"Dead  tired!" — Geoffrey  said  to  himself ,  ob- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  269 

serving  Hester  suspiciouslj'"  as  she  passed  him  in 
the  passage  on  her  way  upstairs  to  take  oif  her 
bonnet  in  her  own  room. 

"Dead  tired!" — Anne  said  to  herself,  meeting 
Hester  on  the  upper  floor,  and  receiving  from 
her  a  letter  in  Blanche's  handwriting,  delivered 
to  the  mistress  of  the  cottage  by  the  postman, 
who  had  met  her  at  her  own  gate. 

Having  given  the  letter  to  Anne,  Hester-  Deth- 
ridge  withdrew  to  her  bedroom, 

Geoffrey  closed  the  door  of  the  drawing-room, 
in  which  the  candles  were  burning,  and  went 
into  the  dining-room,  in  which  there  was  no 
light.  Leaving  the  door  ajar,  he  waited  to  inter- 
cept his  landlady  on  her  way  back  to  her  supper 
in  the  kitchen. 

Hester  wearily  secured  her  door,  wearily 
lighted  the  candles,  wearily  put  the  pen  and  ink 
on  the  table.  For  some  minutes  after  this  she 
was  compelled  to  sit  down,  and  rally  her  strength 
and  fetch  her  breath.  After  a  little  she  was  able 
to  remove  her  upper  clothing.  This  done,  she 
took  the  manuscript,  inscribed,  "My  Confes- 
sion," out  of  the  secret  pocket  of  her  stays — 
turned  to  the  last  leaf  as  before — and  wrote 
another  entry,  under  the  entry  made  on  the  pre- 
vious night. 

"This  morning  I  gave  him  notice  to  quit,  and 
offered  him  his  money  back  if  he  wanted  it.  He 
refuses  to  go.  He  shall  go  to-morrow,  or  I  will 
burn  the  place  over  his  head.  All  through  to- 
day I  have  avoided  him  by  keeping  out  of  the 


270  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

house.  No  rest  to  ease  my  mind,  and  no  sleep 
to  close  my  eyes.  I  humbly  bear  my  cross  as 
long  as  my  strength  will  let  me." 

At  those  words  the  pen  dropped  from  her 
fingers.  Her  head  nodded  on  her  breast.  She 
roused  herself  with  a  start.  Sleep  was  the  enemy 
she  dreaded :  sleep  brought  dreams. 

She  unfastened  the  window-shutters  and  looked 
out  at  the  night.  The  peaceful  moonlight  was 
shining  over  the  garden.  The  clear  depths  of 
the  night  sky  were  soothing  and  beautiful  to  look 
at.  What!  Fading  already?  clouds?  darkness? 
No !  Nearly  asleep  once  more.  She  roused  her- 
self again,  with  a  start.  There  was  the  moon- 
light, and  there  was  the  garden  as  bright  under 
it  as  ever. 

Dreams  or  no  dreams,  it  was  useless  to  fight 
longer  against  the  weariness  that  overpowered 
her.  She  closed  the  shutters,  and  went  back  to 
the  bed ;  and  put  her  Confession  in  its  customary 
place  at  night,  under  her  pillow. 

She  looked  round  the  room — and  shuddered. 
Every  corner  of  it  was  filled  with  the  terrible 
memories  of  the  past  night.  She  might  wake 
from  the  torture  of  the  dreams  to  find  the  terror 
of  the  Apparition  watching  at  her  bedside.  Was 
there  no  remedy?  no  blessed  safeguard  under 
which  she  might  tranquilly  resign  herself  to 
sleep?  A  thought  crossed  her  mind.  The  good 
book — the  Bible.  If  she  slept  with  the  Bible 
under  her  pillow,  there  was  hope  in  the  good 
book — the  hope  of  sleeping  in  peace. 

It  was  not  worth  while  to  put  on  the  gown  and 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  271 

the  stays  which  she  had  taken  off.  Her  shawl 
would  cover  her.  It  was  equally  needless  to  take 
the  candle.  The  lower  shutters  would  not  be 
closed  at  that  hour;  and  if  they  were,  she  could 
lay  her  hand  on  the  Bible,  in  its  place  on  the 
parlor  book-shelf,  in  the  dark. 

She  removed  the  Confession  from  under  the 
pillow.  Not  even  for  a  minute  could  she  prevail 
on  herself  to  leave  it  in  one  room  while  she  was 
away  from  it  in  another.  With  the  manuscript 
folded  up,  and  hidden  in  her  hand,  she  slowly 
descended  the  stairs  again.  Her  knees  trembled 
under  her.  She  was  obliged  to  hold  by  the  ban- 
isters with  the  hand  that  was  free. 

Geoffrey  observed  her  from  the  dining-room, 
on  her  way  down  the  stairs.  He  waited  to  see 
what  she  did,  before  he  showed  himself,  and 
spoke  to  her.  Instead  of  going  on  into  the 
kitchen,  she  stopped  short  and  entered  the  par- 
lor. Another  suspicious  circumstance!  What 
did  she  want  in  the  parlor,  without  a  candle,  at 
that  time  of  night? 

She  went  to  the  book-case — her  dark  figure 
plainly  visible  in  the  moonlight  that  flooded  the 
little  room.  She  staggered  and  put  her  hand  to 
her  head ;  giddy,  to  all  appearance,  from  extreme 
fatigvie.  She  recovered  herself,  and  took  a  book 
from  the  shelf.  She  leaned  against  the  wall  after 
she  had  possessed  herself  of  the  book — too  weary, 
as  it  seemed,  to  get  upstairs  again  without  a  lit- 
tle rest.  Her  arm-chair  was  near  her.  Better 
rest,  for  a  moment  or  two,  to  be  had  in  that  than 
could  be  got  by  leaning  against  the  wall.     She 


272  WOEKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

sat  down  heavily  in  the  chair,  with  the  book  on 
her  lap.  One  of  her  arms  hung  over  the  arm 
of  the  chair,  with  the  hand  closed,  apparently 
holding  something. 

Her  head  nodded  on  her  breast — reco'^ered  it- 
self— and  sank  gently  on  the  cushion  at  the  back 
of  the  chair.     Asleep?     Fast  asleep. 

In  less  than  a  minute  the  muscles  of  the  closed 
hand  that  hung  over  the  arm  of  the  chair  slowly 
relaxed.  Something  white  slipped  out  of  her 
hand,  and  lay  in  the  moonlight  on  the  floor. 

Geoffrey  took  off  his  heavy  shoes,  and  entered 
the  room  noiselessly  in  his  stockings.  He  picked 
up  the  white  thing  on  the  floor.  It  proved  to  be 
a  collection  of  several  sheets  of  thin  paper,  neatly 
folded  together,  and  closely  covered  with  writing. 

Writing?  As  long  as  she  was  awake  she  had 
kept  it  hidden  in  her  hand.     Why  hide  it? 

Had  he  let  out  anything  to  compromise  him- 
self when  he  was  light-headed  with  the  fever  the 
night  before?  and  had  she  taken  it  down  in  writ- 
ing to  produce  against  him?  Possessed  by  guilty 
distrust,  even  that  monstrous  doubt  assumed  a 
look  of  probability  to  Geoffrey's  mind.  He  left 
the  parlor  as  noiselessly  as  he  had  entered  it,  and 
made  for  the  candle-light  in  the  drawing-room, 
determined  to  examine  the  manuscript  in  his 
hand. 

After  carefully  smoothing  out  the  folded  leaves 
on  the  table,  he  turned  to  the  first  page,  and 
read  these  lines. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  273 

CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-FOURTH. 

THE   MANUSCRIPT. 

1. 

"My  Confession:  To  be  put  into  my  coffin; 
and  to  be  buried  with  me  when  I  die. 

"This  is  the  history  of  what  I  did  in  the  time 
of  my  married  life.  Here — known  to  no  other 
mortal  creature,  confessed  to  my  Creator  alone 
— is  the  truth. 
.  "At  the  great  day  of  the  Resurrection,  we 
shall  all  rise  again  in  our  bodies  as  we  have 
lived.  "When  I  am  called  before  the  Judgment 
Seat  I  shall  have  this  in  my  hand. 

"Oh,  just  and  merciful  Judge,  Thou  knowest 
what  I  have  suffered.     My  trust  is  in  Thee. 

3. 

"I  am  th-e  eldest  of  a  large  family,  born  of 
pious  parents.  We  belonged  to  the  congregation 
of  the  Primitive  Methodists. 

"My  sisters  were  all  married  before  me.  I 
remained  for  some  years  the  only  one  at  home. 
At  the  latter  part  of  the  time  my  mother's  health 
failed ;  and  I  managed  the  house  in  her  place. 
Our  spiritual  pastor,  good  Mr.  Bapchild,  used 
often  to  dine  with  us,  on  Sundays,  between  the 
services.  He  approved  of  my  management  of 
the  house,  and,  in  particular,  of  my  cooking. 
This  was  not  pleasant  to  my  mother,  who  felt  a 


274  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

jealousy  of  my  being,  as  it  were,  set  over  her  in 
her  place.  My  unliappiness  at  home  began  in 
this  way.  My  mother's  temper  got  worse  as  her 
health  got  worse.  My  father  was  much  away 
from  us,  traveling  for  his  business.  I  had  to 
bear  it  all.  About  this  time  I  began  to  think  it 
would  be  well  for  me  if  I  could  marry  as  my 
sisters  had  done;  and  have  good  Mr.  Bapchild 
to  dinner,  between  the  services,  in  a  house  of  my 
own. 

"In  this  frame  of  mind,  I  made  acquaintance 
with  a  young  man  who  attended  service  at  our 
chapel. 

"His  name  was  Joel  Dethridge.  He  had  a 
beautiful  voice.  When  we  sang  hymns,  he  sang 
off  the  same  book  with  me.  By  trade  he  was  a 
paper-hanger.  We  had  much  serious  talk  to- 
gether. I  walked  with  him  on  Sundays.  He 
was  a  good  ten  years  younger  than  I  was ;  and, 
being  only  a  journeyman,  his  worldly  station 
was  below  mine.  My  mother  found  out  the 
liking  that  had  grown  up  between  us.  She  told 
my  father  the  next  time  he  was  at  home.  Also 
my  married  sisters  and  my  brothers.  They 
alljoined  together  to  stop  things  from  going  fur- 
ther between  me  and  Joel  Dethridge.  I  had  a 
hard  time  of  it.  Mr.  Bapchild  expressed  himself 
as  feeling  much  grieved  at  the  turn  things  were 
taking.  He  introduced  me  into  a  sermon — not 
by  name,  but  I  knew  who  it  was  meant  for. 
Perhaps  I  might  have  given  way  if  they  had  not 
done  one  thing.  They  made  inquiries  of  my 
young  man's  enemies,  and  brought  wicked  stories 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  275 

of  him  to  me  behind  his  back.  This,  after  we 
had  sung  off  the  same  hj-mn-book,  and  walked 
together,  and  agreed  one  with  the  other  on  relig- 
ious subjects,  was  too  much  to  bear.  I  was  of 
age  to  judge  for  myself.  And  I  married  Joel 
Dethridge. 

3. 

"My  relations  all  turned  their  backs  on  me. 
Not  one  of  them  was  present  at  my  marriage ; 
my  brother  Reuben,  in  particular,  who  led  the 
rest,  saying  that  they  had  done  with  me  from 
that  time  forth.  Mr.  Bapchild  was  much  moved ; 
he  shed  tears,  and  said  he  would  pray  for  me. 

"I  was  married  in  London  by  a  pastor  who 
was  a  stranger;  and  we  settled  in  London  with 
fair  prospects.  I  had  a  little  fortune  of  my  own 
— my  share  of  some  money  left  to  us  girls  by  our 
aunt  Hester,  whom  I  was  named  after.  It  was 
three  hundred  pounds.  Nearly  one  hundred  of 
this  I  spent  in  buying  furniture  to  fit  up  the 
little  house  we  took  to  live  in.  The  rest  I  gave 
to  my  husband  to  put  into  the  bank  against  the 
time  when  he  wanted  it  to  set  up  in  business  for 
himself. 

"For  three  months,  more  of  less,  we  got  on 
nicely — except  in  one  particular.  My  husband 
never  stirred  in  the  matter  of  starting  in  busi- 
ness for  himself. 

' '  He  was  once  or  twice  cross  with  me  when  I 
said  it  seemed  a  pity  to  be  spending  the  money 
in  the  bank  (which  might  be  afterward  wanted) 
instead  of  earning  more  in  business.     Good  Mr.  • 


276  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Bapchild,  happening  about  this  time  to  be  in 
London,  stayed  over  Sunday,  and  came  to  dine 
with  us  between  the  services.  He  had  tried  to 
make  my  ]3eace  with  my  relations — but  he  had 
not  succeeded.  At  my  request  he  spoke  to  my 
husband  about  the  necessity  of  exerting  himself. 
My  husband  took  it  ill.  I  then  saw  him  seriously 
out  of  temper  for  the  first  time.  Good  Mr.  Bap- 
child said  no  more.  He  appeared  to  be  alarmed 
at  what  had  happened,  and  he  took  his  leave 
early. 

"Shortly  afterward  my  husband  went  out.  I 
got  tea  ready  for  him— but  he  never  came  back. 
I  got  supper  ready  for  him — but  he  never  came 
back.  It  was  past  twelve  at  night  before  I  saw 
him  again.  I  was  very  much  startled  by  the 
state  he  came  home  in.  He  didn't  speak  like 
himself,  or  look  like  himself:  he  didn't  seem  to 
know  me — wandered  in  his  mind,  and  fell  all  in 
a  lump  like  on  our  bed.  I  ran  out  and  fetched 
the  doctor  to  him. 

"The  doctor  pulled  him  up  to  the  light,  and 
looked  at  him ;  smelled  his  breath,  and  dropped 
him  down  again  on  the  bed ;  turned  about,  and 
stared  at  me.  'What's  the  matter,  sir?'  I  says. 
'Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  don't  know?'  says 
the  doctor.  'No,  sir,'  says  I.  'Why  what  sort 
of  a  woman  are  you,'  says  he,  'not  to  know  a 
drunken  man  when  you  see  him !'  With  that  he 
went  away,  and  left  me  standing  by  the  bedside, 
all  in  a  tremble  from  head  to  foot. 

"This  was  how  I  first  found  out  that  I  was 
the  wife  of  a  drunken  man. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  277 

4. 

*'I  have  omitted  to  say  anything  about  my 
huvshand's  family. 

' '  While  we  were  keeping  company  together  he 
told  me  he  was  an  orphan — with  an  uncle  and 
aunt  in  Canada,  and  an  only  brother  settled  in 
Scotland.  Before  we  were  married  he  gave  me 
a  letter  from  this  brother.  It  was  to  say  that 
he  was  sorry  he  was  not  able  to  come  to  England, 
and  be  present  at  mj  marriage,  and  to  wish  me 
joy  and  the  rest  of  it.  Good  Mr.  Bapchild  (to 
whom,  in  mj^  distress,  I  wrote  word  privately  of 
what  had  happened)  wrote  back  in  return,  tell- 
ing me  to  wait  a  little,  and  see  whether  my  hus- 
band did  it  again. 

"I  had  not  long  to  wait.  He  was  in  liquor 
again  the  next  day,  and  the  next.  Hearing  this, 
Mr.  Bapchild  in.structed  me  to  send  him  the  letter 
from  my  husband's  brother.  He  reminded  me 
of  some  of  the  stories  about  my  husband,  which 
I  had  refused  to  believe  in  the  time  before  I  was 
married ;  and  he  said  it  might  be  well  to  make 
inquiries. 

"The  end  of  the  inquiries  was  this:  The 
brother,  at  that  very  time,  was  placed  privately 
(by  his  own  request)  under  a  doctor's  care  to  get 
broken  of  habits  of  drinking.  The  craving  for 
strong  liquor  (the  doctor  wrote)  was  in  the  fam- 
ily. They  would  be  sober  sometimes  for  months 
together,  drinking  nothing  stronger  than  tea. 
Then  the  fit  would  seize  them ; .  and  they  would 
drink,  drink,  drink,  for  days  together,  like  the 
mad  and  miserable  wretches  that  they  were. 


378  WORKS   OF  WILKIE   COLLINS. 

"This  was  the  husband  I  was  married  to.  And 
I  had  offended  all  my  relations,  and  estranged 
them  from  me,  for  his  sake.  Here  was  surely 
a  sad  prospect  for  a  woman  after  only  a  few 
months  of  wedded  life ! 

"In  a  year's  time  the  money  in  the  bank  was 
gone,  and  my  husband  was  out  of  employment. 
He  always  got  work — being  a  first-rate  hand 
when  he  was  sober— and  always  lost  it  again 
when  the  drinking-fit  seized  him.  I  was  loath 
to  leave  our  nice  little  house,  and  part  with  my 
pretty  furniture;  and  I  proposed  to  him  to  let 
me  try  for  employment,  by  the  day,  as  cook, 
and  so  keep  things  going  while  he  was  looking 
out  again  for  work.  He  was  sober  and  penitent 
at  the  time ;  and  he  agreed  to  what  I  proposed. 
And,  more  than  that,  he  took  the  Total  Absti- 
nence Pledge,  and  promised  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf.  Matters,  as  I  thought,  began  to  look  fairly 
again.  We  had  nobody  but  our  two  selves  to 
think  of.  I  had  borne  no  child,  and  had  no 
prospect  of  bearing  one.  Unlike  most  women, 
I  thought  this  a  mercy  instead  of  a  misfortune. 
In  my  situation  (as  I  soon  grew  to  know)  my 
becoming  a  mother  would  only  have  proved  to 
be  an  aggravation  of  my  hard  lot. 

"The  sort  of  emplojanent  I  wanted  was  not  to 
be  got  in  a  day.  Good  Mr.  Bapchild  gave  me  a 
character ;  and  our  landlord,  a  worthy  man  (be- 
longing, I  am  sorry  to  say,  to  the  Popish  Church), 
spoke  for  me  to  the  steward  of  a  club.  Still,  it 
took  time  to  persuade  people  that  I  was  the 
thorough  good  cook  I  claimed  to  be.     Nigh  on  a 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  279 

fortnight  had  passed  before  I  got  the  chance  I 
had  been  looking  out  for.  I  went  home  in  good 
spirits  (for  me)  to  report  what  had  happened, 
and  found  the  brokers  in  the  house  carrying  off 
the  furniture  which  I  had  bought  with  my  own 
money  for  sale  by  auction.  I  asked  them  how 
they  dared  touch  it  without  my  leave.  They 
answered,  civilly  enough  I  must  own,  that  they 
were  acting  under  my  husband's  orders;  and 
they  went  on  removing  it,  before  my  own  eyes, 
to  the  cart  outside.  I  ran  upstairs,  and  found 
my  husband  on  the  landing.  He  was  in  liquor 
again.  It  is  useless  to  say  what  passed  between 
us.  I  shall  only  mention  that  this  was  the  first 
occasion  on  which  he  lifted  his  fist  and  struck 
me. 

5. 

"Having  a  spirit  of  my  own,  I  was  resolved 
not  to  endure  it.  I  ran  out  to  the  Police  Court, 
hard  by. 

"My  money  had  not  onlj^  bought  the  furniture 
— it  had  kept  the  house  going  as  well ;  paying 
the  taxes  which  the  Queen  and  the  Parliament 
asked  for  among  other  things.  I  now  went  to 
the  magistrate  to  see  what  the  Queen  and  the 
Parliament,  in  return  for  the  taxes,  would  do 
for  itie. 

"  'Is  your  furniture  settled  on  yourself?'  he 
says,  when  I  told  him  what  had  happened. 

"I   didn't  understand  what   he   meant.      He 

turned  to  some  person  who  was  sitting  on  the 

bench  with  him.  'This  is  a  hard  case,'  he  says. 
Vol.  4  10— 


2S0  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

'Poor  people  in  this  condition  of  life  don't  even 
know  what  a  marriage  settlement  means.  And, 
if  they  did,  how  many  of  them  could  afford  to 
pay  the  lawyer's  charges?'  Upon  that  he  turned 
to  me.  'Yours is  a  common  case,'  he  said.  'In 
the  present  state  of  the  law  I  can  do  nothing  for 
you. ' 

"It  was  impossible  to  believe  that.  Common 
or  not,  I  put  my  case  to  him  over  again. 

"  'I  have  bought  the  furniture  with  my  own 
money,  sir,'  I  says.  'It's  mine,  honestly  come 
by,  with  bill  and  receipt  to  prove  it.  They  are 
taking  it  away  from  me  by  force,  to  sell  it  against 
my  will.  Don't  tell  me  that's  the  law.  This  a 
Christian  country.     It  can't  be.' 

"  'My  good  creature, '  says  he,  'you  are  a  mar- 
ried woman.  The  law  doesn't  allow  a  married 
woman  to  call  anything  her  own— unless  she  has 
previously  (with  a  lawyer's  help)  made  a  bargain 
to  that  effect  with  her  husband  before  marrying 
him.  You  have  made  no  bargain.  Your  hus- 
band has  a  right  to  sell  your  furniture  if  he  likes, 
I  am  sorry  for  you ;  I  can't  hinder  him. ' 

"I  was  obstinate  about  it.  'Please  to  answer 
me  this,  sir,'  I  says.  'I've  been  told  by  wiser 
heads  than  mine  that  we  all  pay  our  taxes  to 
keep  the  Queen  and  the  Parliament  going,  and 
that  the  Queen  and  the  Parliament  make  laws 
to  protect  us  in  return.  I  have  paid  my  taxes. 
Why,  if  you  please,  is  there  no  law  to  protect  me 
in  return?' 

"  'I  can't  enter  into  that,'  says  he.  'I  must 
take  the  law  as  I  find  it ;  and  so  must  you.     I 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  5^81 

see  a  mark  there  on  the  side  of  your  face.  Has 
your  husband  been  beating  you?  If  he  has, 
summon  him  here.     I  can  punish  him  for  that.'' 

"  'How  can  you  punish  him,  sir?'  says  I. 

"  'I  can  fine  him,'  says  he.  'Or  I  can  send 
him  to  prison.' 

"  'As  to  the  fine,'  says  I,  'he  can  paj^  that  out 
of  the  money  he  gets  by  selling  my  furniture. 
As  to  the  prison,  while  he's  in  it,  what's  to  be- 
come of  me,  with  my  money  spent  by  him,  and 
my  possession  gone ;  and  when  he's  out  of  it, 
what's  to  become  of  me  again,  with  a  husband 
whom  I  have  been  the  means  of  punishing,  and 
who  comes  home  to  his  wife  knowing  it?  It's 
bad  enough  as  it  is,  sir,'  says  I.  'There's  more 
that's  bruised  in  me  than  what  shows  in  my  face. 
I  wish  you  good-morning.' 

(3. 

"When  I  got  back  the  furniture  was  gone  and 
my  husband  was  gone.  There  was  nobody  but 
the  landlord  in  the  empty  house.  He  said  all 
that  could  be  said— kindly  enough  toward  me, 
so  far  as  I  was  concerned.  When  he  was  gone 
I  locked  my  trunk,  and  got  away  in  a  cab  after 
dark,  and  found  a  lodging  to  lay  my  head  in.  If ■ 
ever  there  was  a  lonely,  broken-hearted  creature 
in  the  world,  I  was  that  creature  that   night. 

"There  was  but  one  chance  of  earning  my 
bread- — tp  go  to  the  employment  offered  me 
(under  a  man  cook,  at  a  club).  And  there  was 
but  one  hope — the  hope  that  I  had  lost  sight  of 
my  husband  forever. 


382  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"I  went  to  my  work — and  prospered  in  it — 
and  earned  my  first  quarter's  wages.  But  it's 
not  good  for  a  woman  to  be  situated  as  I  was; 
friendless  and  alone,  with  her  things  that  she 
took  a  pride  in  sold  away  from  her,  and  with 
nothing  to  look  forward  to  in  her  life  to  come. 
I  was  regular  in  my  attendance  at  chapel;  but 
I  think  my  heart  began  to  get  hardened,  and 
my  mind  to  be  overcast  in  secret  with  its  own 
thoughts  about  this  time.  There  was  a  change 
coming.  Two  or  three  days  after  I  had  earned 
the  wages  just  mentioned  my  husband  found  me 
out.  The  furniture  money  was  all  spent.  He 
made  a  disturbance  at  the  club.  I  was  only  able 
to  quiet  him  by  giving  him  all  the  money  I  could 
spare  from  my  own  necessities.  The  scandal  was 
brought  before  the  committee.  They  said,  if  the 
circumstance  occurred  again,  they  should  be 
obliged  to  part  with  me.  In  a  fortnight  the  cir- 
cumstance occurred  again.  It's  useless  to  dwell 
on  it.  They  all  said  they  were  sorry  for  me.  I 
lost  the  place.  My  husband  went  back  with  me 
to  my  lodgings.  The  next  morning  I  caught 
him  taking  my  purse,  with  the  few  shillings  I 
had  in  it,  out  of  my  trunk,  which  he  had  broken 
open.  AVe  quarreled.  And  he  struck  me  again 
— this  time  knocking  me  down. 

"I  went  once  more  to  the  police  court,  and 
told  my  story — to  another  magistrate  this  time. 
My  only  petition  was  to  have  my  husband  kept 
away  from  me.  'I  don't  want  to  be  a  burden 
on  others'  (I  says);  'I  don't  want  to  do  anything 
but  what's  right.    I  don't  even  complain  of  hav- 


MAN   AND   WIFE,  283 

ing  been  cruelly  used.  All  I  ask  is  to  be  let  to 
earn  an  honest  living.  Will  the  law  protect  me 
in  the  effort  to  do  that?' 

"The  answer,  in  substance,  was  that  the  law 
might  protect  me,  provided  I  had  money  to  spend 
in  asking  some  higher  court  to  grant  me  a  sepa- 
ration. After  allowing  my  husband  to  rob  me 
openly  of  the  only  property  I  possessed — namel}^, 
my  furniture — the  law  turned  round  on  me  when 
I  called  upon  it  in  my  distress,  and  held  out  its 
hand  to  be  paid.  I  had  just  three-and-sixpence 
left  in  the  world — and  the  prospect,  if  I  earned 
more,  of  my  husband  coming  (with  permission 
of  the  law)  and  taking  it  away  from  me.  There 
was  only  one  chance — namely,  to  get  time  to 
turn  round  in,  and  to  escape  him  again.  I  got 
a  month's  freedom  from  him,  by  charging  him 
with  knocking  me  down.  The  magistrate  (hap- 
pening to  be  young,  and  new  to  his  business) 
sent  him  to  prison,  instead  of  fining  him.  This 
gave  me  time  to  get  a  character  from  the  club, 
as  well  as  a  special  testimonial  from  good  Mr. 
Bapchild.  With  the  help  of  these,  I  obtained  a 
place  in  a  private  family — -a  place  in  the  country, 
this  time. 

"I  found  mj'self  now  in  a  haven  of  peace.  I 
was  among  worthy,  kind-hearted  people,  who 
felt  for  my  distresses,  and  treated  me  most  in- 
dulgently. Indeed,  through  all  my  troubles,  I 
must  say  I  have  found  one  thing  hold  good.  In 
my  experience,  I  have  observed  that  people  are 
oftener  quick  than  not  to  feel  a  human  compas- 
sion for  others  in  distress ;  also,  that  they  mostly 


284  WORKS    OF    WILKIE   COLLINS. 

see  plain  enough  v/hat's  hard  and  cruel  and  un- 
fair on  them  in  the  governing  of  the  country 
which  they  help  to  keep  going.  But  once  ask 
them  to  get  on  from  sitting  down  and  grumbling 
about  it,  to  rising  up  and  setting  it  right,  and 
what  do  you  find  them?  As  helpless  as  a  flock 
of  sheep — that's  what  you  find  them. 

"More  than  six  months  passed,  and  I  saved  a 
little  money  again. 

"One  night,  just  as  we  were  going  to  bed, 
there  was  a  loud  ring  at  the  bell.  The  footman 
answered  the  door,  and  I  heard  my  husband's 
voice  in  the  hall.  He  had  traced  me,  with  the 
help  of  a  man  he  knew  in  the  police ;  and  he  had 
come  to  claim  his  rights.  I  offered  him  all  the 
little  monej'-  I  had  to  let  me  be.  My  good  master 
spoke  to  him.  It  was  all  useless.  He  was  obsti- 
nate and  savage.  If — ^instead  of  my  running  off 
from  him — it  had  been  all  the  other  way,  and  he 
had  run  off  from  me,  something  might  have 
been  done  (as  I  understood)  to  protect  me.  But 
he  stuck  to  his  wife — as  long  as  I  could  make  a 
farthing,  he  stuck  to  his  wife.  Being  married 
to  him,  I  had  no  right  to  have  left  him;  I  was 
bound  to  go  with  my  husband;  there  was  no 
escape  for  me.  I  bade  them  good-by.  And  I 
have  never  forgotten  their  kindness  to  me  from 
that  day  to  this. 

"My  husband  took  me  back  to  London. 

"As  long  as  the  money  lasted,  the  drinking 
went  on.  When  it  was  gone  I  was  beaten 
again.  Where  was  the  remedy?  There  was  no 
remedy,  Init  to  try  and  escape  him  once  more. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  285 

Why  didn't  I  have  him  locked  up?  What  was 
the  good  of  having  him  locked  up?  In  a  few 
weeks  he  would  be  out  of  prison ;  sober  and  peni- 
tent, and  promising  amendment — and  then  when 
the  fit  took  him;  there  he  would  be,  the  same  fu- 
rious savage  that  he  had  been  often  and  often 
before.  My  heart  got  hard  under  the  hopeless- 
ness of  it ;  and  dark  thoughts  beset  me,  mostly 
at  night.  About  this  time  I  began  to  say  to 
myself,  'There's  no  deliverance  from  this  but 
in  death^ — his  death  or  mine.' 

' '  Once  or  twice  I  went  down  to  the  bridges 
after  dark,  and  looked  over  at  the  river.  No.  I 
wasn't  the  sort  of  woman  who  ends  her  own 
wretchedness  in  that  way.  Your  blood  must  be 
in  a  fever,  and  your  head  in  a  flame — at  least  I 
fancy  so — you  must  be  hurried  into  it,  like,  to 
go  and  make  away  with  yourself.  My  troubles 
never  took  that  effect  on  me.  I  always  turned 
cold  under  them,  instead  of  hot.  Bad  for  me,  I 
dare  say ;  but  what  you  are — you  are.  Can  the 
Ethiopian  change  his  skin,  or  the  leopard  his 
spots? 

"I  got  away  from  him  once  more,  and  found 
good  employment  once  more.  It  don't  matter 
how,  and  it  don't  matter  where.  My  story  is 
always  the  same  thing,  over  and  over  again. 
Best  get  to  the  end. 

"There  was  one  change,  however,  this  time. 
My  emplojmient  was  not  in  a  private  family.  I 
was  also  allowed  to  teach  cookery  to  young  wo- 
men, in  my  leisure  hours.  What  with  this,  and 
what  with  a  longer  time  passing  on  the  present 


386  WORKS    OF    WILKIE     COLLINS. 

occasion  before  my  husband  found  me  out,  I  was 
as  comfortably  off  as  in  my  position  1  could  hope 
to  be.  When  my  work  was  done,  I  went  away 
at  night  to  sleep  in  a  lodging  of  my  own.  It 
was  only  a  bedroom ;  and  I  furnished  it  myself 
— partly  for  the  sake  of  economy  (the  rent 
being  not  half  as  much  as  for  a  furnished 
room) ;  and  partly  for  the  sake  of  cleanli- 
ness. Through  all  my  troubles  I  always  liked 
things  neat  about  me — neat  and  shajDely  and 
good. 

"Well,  it's  needless  to  say  how  it  ended.  He 
found  me  out  again — this  time  bj^  a  chance  meet- 
ing with  me  in  the  street. 

"He  was  in  rags,  and  half  starved.  But  that 
didn't  matter  now.  All  he  had  to  do  was  to  put 
his  hand  into  my  pocket  and  take  what  he 
wanted.  There  is  no  limit,  in  England,  to  what 
a  bad  husband  may  do — as  long  as  he  sticks  to 
his  wife.  On  the  present  occasion,  he  was  cun- 
ning enough  to  see  that  he  would  be  the  loser  if 
he  disturbed  me  in  my  employment.  For  a 
while  things  went  on  as  smoothly  as  they  could. 
I  made  a  pretense  that  the  work  was  harder  than 
usual ;  and  I  got  leave  (loathing  the  sight  of 
him,  I  honestly  own)  to  sleep  at  the  place  where 
I  was  employed.  This  was  not  for  long.  The 
fit  took  him  again,  in  due  course ;  and  he  came 
and  made  a  disturbance.  As  before,  this  was 
not  to  be  borne  by  decent  people.  As  before, 
they  were  sorry  to  part  with  me.  As  before,  I 
lost  my  place. 

"Another    woman    would    have    gone     mad 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  287 

under  it.     I   fancy   it   just   missed,  bj""  a  hair- 
breadth, maddening  Me. 

' '  When  I  looked  at  him  that  night,  deep  in  his 
drunken  sleep,  I  thought  of  Jael  and  Sisera  (see 
the  Book  of  Judges;  chapter  4th;  verses  17  to 
21).  It  says,  she  'took  a  nail  of  the  tent,  and 
took  a  hammer  in  her  hand,  and  went  softly  unto 
him,  and  smote  the  nail  into  his  temples,  and 
fastened  it  into  the  ground ;  for  he  was  fast 
asleep  and  weary.  So  he  died.'  She  did  this 
deed  to  deliver  her  nation  from  Sisera.  If  there 
had  been  a  hammer  and  a  nail  in  the  room  that 
night,  I  think  I  should  have  been  Jael — with 
this  difference,  that  I  should  have  done  it  to 
deliver  myself. 

"With  the  morning  this  passed  off,  for  the 
time.     I  went  and  spoke  to  a. lawyer. 

"Most  people,  in  my  place,  would  have  had 
enough  of  the  law  already.  But  I  was  one  of 
the  sort  who  drain  the  cup  to  the  dregs.  What 
I  said  to  him  was,  in  substance,  this:  'I  come  to 
ask  your  advice  about  a  madman.  Mad  people, 
as  I  understand  it,  are  people  who  have  lost  con- 
trol over  their  own  minds.  Sometimes  this  leads 
them  to  entertaining  delusions;  and  sometimes 
it  leads  them  to  committing  actions  hurtful  to 
others  or  to  themselves.  My  husband  has  lost 
all  control  over  his  own  craving  for  strong  drink. 
He  requires  to  be  kept  from  liquor,  as  other  mad- 
men require  to  be  kept  from  attempting  their 
own  lives,  or  the  lives  of  those  about  them.  It's 
a  frenzy  beyond  his  own  control,  with  him — just 
as  it's  a  frenzy  beyond  their  own  control,  with 


288  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

them.  .  There  are  Asylums  for  mad  peoj)le,  all 
over  the  country,  at  the  public  ^disposal,  ou  cer- 
tain conditions.  If  I  fulfill  those  conditions,  will 
the  law  deliver  me  from  the  misery  of  being 
married  to  a  madman,  whose  madness  is  drink?' 
— 'No,'  says  the  lawyer.  'The  law  of  England 
declines  to  consider  an  incurable  drunkard  as 
a  fit  object  for  restraint;  the  law  of  England 
leaves  the  husbands  and  wives  of  such  people  in 
a  perfectly  helpless  situation,  to  deal  with  their 
own  misery  as  they  best  can. ' 

"I  made  my  acknowledgments  to  the  gentle- 
man and  left  him.  The  last  chance  was  this 
chance — and  this  had  failed  me. 


*'The  thought  that  had  once  found  its  way 
into  my  mind  alreadj",  now  found  its  way  back 
again;  and  never  altogether  left  me  from  that 
time  forth.  No  deliverance  for  me  but  in  death 
— his  death,  or  mine. 

"I  had  it  before  me  night  and  day;  in  chapel 
and  out  of  chapel  just  the  same.  I  read  the 
story  of  Jael  and  Sisera  so  often  that  the  Bible 
got  to  open  of  itself  at  that  place. 

"The  laws  of  my  country,  which  ought  to 
have  protected  me  as  an  honest  woman,  left  me 
helpless.  In  place  of  the  laws  I  had  no  friend 
near  to  open  my  heart  to.  I  was  shut  up  in  my- 
self. And  I  was  married  to  that  man.  Consider 
me  as  a  human  creature,  and  sa}^,  Was  this  not 
trying  my  humanity  very  hardly? 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  289 

"I  wrote  to  ^ood  Mr.  Bapchild.  Not  going 
into  particulars ;  only  telling  him  I  was  beset  by 
temptation,  and  begging  him  to  come  and  help 
nie.  He  was  confined  to  his  bed  by  illness ;  he 
could  only  write  me  a  letter  of  good  advice.  To 
profit  by  good  advice,  people  must  have  a  glimpse 
of  happiness  to  look  forward  to  as  a  reward  for 
exerting  themselves.  Religion  itself  is  obliged 
to  hold  out  a  reward,  and  to  say  to  us  poor  mor- 
tals, Be  good,  and  you  shall  go  to  heaven.  I 
had  no  glimpse  of  happiness.  I  was  thankful 
(in  a  dull  sort  of  way)  to  good  Mr,  Bapchild — 
and  there  it  ended. 

' '  The  time  had  been  when  a  word  from  my  old 
pastor  would  have  put  me  in  the  right  way 
again.  I  began  to  feel  scared  by  myself.  If  the 
next  ill  usage  I  received  from  Joel  Dethridge 
found  me  an  unchanged  woman,  it  was  borne  in 
strongly  on  my  mind  that  I  should  be  as  likely 
as  not  to  get  my  deliverance  from  him  by  my 
own  hand. 

"Goaded  to  it,  by  the  fear  of  this,  I  humbled 
myself  before  my  relations  for  the  first  time.  I 
wrote  to  beg  their  pardon ;  to  own  that  they  had 
proved  to  be  right  in  their  opinion  of  my  hus- 
band ;  and  to  entreat  them  to  be  friends  with  me 
again^  so  far  as  to  let  me  visit  them  from  time 
to  time.  My  notion  was,  that  it  might  soften 
my  heart  if  I  could  see  the  old  place,  and  talk 
the  old  talk,  and  look  again  at  the  well-remem- 
bered faces.  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  own  it — 
but,  if  I  had  had  anything  to  give,  I  would  have 
parted  with  it  all,  to  be  allowed  to  go  back  into 


290  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

mother's  kitchen  and  cook  the  Sunday  dinner 
for  them  once  more. 

"But  this  was  not  to  be.  Not  long  before  my 
letter  was  received  mother  had  died.  They  laid 
it  all  at  my  door.  She  had  been  ailing  for  years 
past,  and  the  doctors  had  said  it  was  hopeless 
from  the  first — but  they  laid  it  all  at  my  door. 
One  of  my  sisters  wrote  to  say  that  much,  in  as 
few  words  as  could  possibly  suffice  for  saying  it. 
My  father  never  answered  my  letter  at  all. 

9. 

"Magistrates  and  lawyers;  relations  and 
friends;  endurance  of  injuries,  patience,  hope 
and  honest  work — I  had  tried  all  these,  and  tried 
them  vainly.  Look  round  me  where  I  might, 
the  prospect  was  closed  on  all  sides. 

"At  this  time  my  husband  had  got  a  little 
work  to  do.  He  came  home  out  of  temper  one 
night,  and  I  gave  him  a  warning.  'Don't  try 
me  too  far,  Joel,  for  your  own  sake,'  was  all  I 
said.  It  was  one  of  his  sober  days ;  and  for  the 
first  time  a  word  from  me  seemed  to  have  an 
effect  on  him.  He  looked  hard  at  me  for  a  min- 
ute or  so.  And  then  he  went  and  sat  down  in  a 
corner,  and  held  his  peace. 

' '  This  was  on  a  Tuesday  in  the  week.  On  the 
Saturday  he  got  paid,  and  the  drinking  fit  took 
him  again. 

"On  Friday  in  the  next  week  I  happened  to 
come  back  late — having  had  a  good  stroke  of 
work  to  do  that  day,  in  the  way  of  cooking  a 
public  dinner  for  a  tavern-keeper  who  knew  me. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  291 

I  found  my  husband  gone,  and  the  bedroom 
stripped  of  the  furniture  which  I  had  put  into 
it.  For  the  second  time  he  had  robbed  me  of  my 
own  property,  and  had  turned  it  into  money  to 
be  spent  in  drink. 

"I  didn't  say  a  word.  I  stood  and  looked 
round  the  empty  room.  What  was  going  on  in 
me  I  hardly  knew  myself  at  the  time,  and  can't 
describe  now.  All  I  remember  is,  that  after  a 
little,  I  turned  about  to  leave  the  house.  I  knew 
the  places  where  my  husband  was  likely  to  be 
found ;  and  the  devil  possessed  me  to  go  and  find 
him.  The  landlady  came  out  into  the  passage 
and  tried  to  stop  me.  She  was  a  bigger  and  a 
stronger  woman  than  I  was.  But  I  shook  her 
off  like  a  child.  Thinking  over  it  now,  I  believe 
she  was  in  no  condition  to  put  out  her  strength. 
The  sight  of  me  frightened  her. 

"I  found  him.  I  said — well,  I  said  what  a 
woman  beside  herself  with  fury  would  be  likely 
to  say.  It's  needless  to  tell  how  it  ended.  He 
knocked  me  down. 

"After  that,  there  is  a  spot  of  darkness  like 
in  my  memory.  The  next  thing  I  can  call  to 
mind,  is  coming  back  to  my  senses  after  some 
days.  Three  of  my  teeth  were  knocked  out— 
but  that  was  not  the  worst  of  it.  My  head  had 
struck  against  something  in  falling,  and  some 
part  of  me  (a  nerve,  1  think  they  said)  was  in- 
jured in  such  a  way  as  to  affect  my  speech.  I 
don't  mean  that  I  was  downright  dumb — I  only 
mean  that,  all  of  a  sudden,  it  had  become  a  labor 
to  me  to  speak.     A  long  word  was  as  serious  an 


292  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

obstacle  as  if  I  was  a  child  again.  The}^  took 
me  to  the  hospital.  When  the  medical  gentle- 
men heard  what  it  was,  the  medical  gentlemen 
came  crowding  round  me.  I  appeared  to  lay  hold 
of  their  interest,  just  as  a  story-book  lays  hold  of 
the  interest  of  other  people.  The  upshot  of  it 
was,  that  I  might  end  in  being  dumb,  or  I  might 
get  my  speech  again — the  chances  were  about 
equal.  Only  two  things  were  needful.  One  of 
them  was,  that  I  should  live  on  good  nourishing- 
diet.  The  other  was,  that  I  should  keep  my 
mind  easy. 

"About  the  diet  it  was  not  possible  to  decide. 
My  getting  good  nourishing  food  and  drink  de- 
pended on  my  getting  money  to  buy  the  same. 
As  to  my  mind,  there  was  no  difficulty  about 
that.  If  my  husband  came  back  to  me,  my 
mind  was  made  up  to  kill  him. 

"Horrid — I  am  well  aware  this  is  horrid.  No- 
body else,  in  my  place,  would  have  ended  as 
wickedly  as  that.  All  the  other  women  in  the 
world,  tried  as  I  was,  would  have  risen  superior 
to  the  trial. 

10. 

"I  have  said  that  people  (excepting  my  hus- 
band and  my  relations)  were  almost  always  good 
to  me. 

"The  landlord  of  the  house  which  we  had 
taken  when  we  were  married  heard  of  my  sad 
case.  He  gave  me  one  of  his  empty  houses  to 
look  after,  and  a  little  weekly  allowance  for  doing 
it.     Some  of  the  furniture  in  the  upper  rooms, 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  293 

not  being  wanted  by  the  last  tenant,  was  left  to 
be  taken  at  a  valuation  if  the  next  tenant  needed 
it.  Two  of  the  servants'  bedrooms  (in  the  attics), 
one  next  to  the  other,  had  all  that  was  wanted 
in  them.  So  I  had  a  roof  to  cover  me,  and  a 
choice  of  beds  to  lie  on,  and  money  to  get  me 
food.  All  well  again — but  all  too  late.  If  that 
house  could  speak,  what  tales  that  house  would 
have  to  tell  of  me ! 

"I  have  been  told  by  the  doctors  to  exercise 
my  speech.  Being  all  alone,  with  nobody  to 
speak  to,  except  when  the  landlord  dropped  in, 
or  when  the  servant  next  door  said,  'Nice  day, 
ain't  it?'  or,  'Don't  you  feel  lonely?'  or  such 
like,  I  bought  the  newspaper,  and  read  it  out 
loud  to  myself  to  exercise  my  speech  in  that  way. 
One  day  I  came  upon  a  bit  about  the  wives  of 
drunken  husbands.  It  was  a  report  of  some- 
thing said  on  that  subject  by  a  London  coroner, 
who  had  held  inquests  on  dead  husbands  (in  the 
lower  ranks  of  life),  and  who  had  his  reasons  for 
suspecting  the  wives.  Examination  of  the  bod}" 
(he  said)  didn't  prove  it;  and  witnesses  didn't 
prove  it ;  but  he  thought  it,  nevertheless,  quite 
possible,  in  some  cases,  that,  when  the  woman 
could  bear  it  no  longer,  she  sometimes  took  a 
damp  towel,  and  waited  till  the  husband  (drugged 
with  his  own  liquor)  was  sunk  in  his  sleep,  and 
then  put  the  towel  over  his  nose  and  mouth,  and 
ended  it  that  way  without  anybody  being  the 
wiser.  I  laid  down  the  newspaper  and  fell  into 
thinking.  My  mind  was,  by  this  time,  in  a  pro- 
phetic way.     I  said  to  myself,  'I  haven't  hap- 


294  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

pened  on  this  for  nothing:  this  means  that  I 
shall  see  my  husband  again. ' 

"It  was  then  just  after  my  dinner-time — two 
o'clock.  The  same  night,  at  the  moment  when 
I  had  put  out  my  candle  and  laid  me  down  in 
bed,  I  heard  a  knock  at  the  street  door.  Before 
I  had  lighted  my  candle  I  says  to  myself,  'Here 
he  is. ' 

"I  huddled  on  a  few  things,  and  struck  a  light, 
and  went  downstairs.  I  called  out  through  the 
door,  'Who's  there?'  And  his  voice  answered, 
'Let  me  in.' 

"I  sat  down  on  a  chair  in  the  passage,  and 
shook  all  over  like  a  person  struck  with  palsy. 
Not  from  the  fear  of  him — but  from  my  mind 
being  in  the  prophetic  way.  I  knew  I  was 
going  to  be  driven  to  it  at  last.  Try  as  I  might 
to  keep  from  doing  it,  my  mind  told  me  I  was 
to  do  it  now.  I  sat  shaking  on  the  chair  in 
the  passage;  I  on  one  side  of  the  door,  and  he 
on  the  other. 

"He  knocked  again,  and  again,  and  again.  I 
knew  it  was  useless  to  try — and  yet  I  resolved  to 
try.  I  determined  not  to  let  him  in  till  I  was 
forced  to  it.  I  determined  to  let  him  alarm  the 
neighborhood,  and  to  see  if  the  neighborhood 
would  step  between  us.  I  went  upstairs  and 
waited  at  the  open  staircase  window  over  the 
door. 

"The  policeman  came  up,  and  the  neighbors 
came  out.  They  were  all  for  giving  him  into 
custody.  The  policeman  laid  hands  on  him.  He 
had  but  one  word  to  say ;  he  had  only  to  point 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  295 

up  to  me  at  the  window,  and  to  tell  them  I  was 
liis  wife.  The  neighbors  went  indoors  again. 
The  policeman  dropjjed  hold  of  his  arm.  It  was 
I  who  was  in  the  wrong,  and  not  he.  I  was 
bound  to  let  my  husband  in.  I  went  downstairs 
again,  and  let  him  in. 

"Nothing  passed  between  us  that  night.  I 
threw  open  the  door  of  the  bedroom  next  to  mine, 
and  went  and  locked  myself  into  my  own  room. 
He  was  dead  beat  with  roaming  the  streets, 
without  a  penny  in  his  pocket,  all  day  long.  The 
bed  to  lie  on  was  all  he  wanted  for  that  night. 

"The  next  morning  I  tried  again — tried  to 
turn  back  on  the  way  that  I  was  doomed  to  go; 
knowing  beforehand  that  it  would  be  of  no  use. 
I  offered  him  three  parts  of  my  poor  weekly 
earnings,  to  be  paid  to  him  regularly  at  the  land- 
lord's office,  if  he  would  only  keep  away  from 
me  and  from  the  house.  He  laughed  in  my  face. 
As  my  husband,  he  could  take  all  my  earnings 
if  he  chose.  And  as  for  leaving  the  house,  the 
house  offered  him  free  quarters  to  live  in  as  long 
as  I  was  employed  to  look  after  it.  The  land- 
lord couldn't  part  man  and  wife. 

"I  said  no  more.  Later  in  the  day  the  land- 
lord came.  He  said  if  we  could  make  it  out  to 
live  together  peaceablj^  he  had  neither  the  right 
nor  the  wish  to  interfere.  If  we  made  any  dis- 
turbances, then  he  should  be  obliged  to  provide 
himself  with  some  other  woman  to  look  after  the 
house.  I  had  nowhere  else  to  go,  and  no  other 
employment  to  undertake.  If,  in  spite  of  that, 
I  had  put   on  my  bonnet  and  walked  out,  my 


296  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

husband  would  have  walked  out  after  me.  And 
all  decent  people  would  have  patted  him  on  the 
back,  and  said,  'Quite  right,  good  man — quite 
right. ' 

"So  there  he  was  by  his  own  act,  and  with 
the  approval  of  others,  in  the  same  house  with 
me. 

"I  made  no  remark  to.  him  or  to  the  landlord. 
Nothing  roused  me  now.  I  knew  what  was 
coming ;  I  waited  for  the  end.  There  was  some 
change  visible  in  me  to  others,  as  I  suppose, 
though  not  noticeable  by  myself,  which  first 
surprised  my  husband  and  then  daunted  him. 
When  the  next  night  came,  I  heard  him  lock  the 
door  softly  in  his  own  room.  It  didn't  matter  to 
me.  When  the  time  was  ripe,  ten  thousand  locks 
wouldn't  lock  out  what  was  to  come. . 

"The  next  day  bringing  my  weekly  payment, 
brought  me  a  step  nearer  on  the  way  to  the  end. 
Getting  the  money,  he  could  get  the  drink.  This 
time  he  began  cunningly — in  other  words,  he 
began  his  drinking  by  slow  degrees.  The  land- 
lord (bent,  honest  man,  on  trying  to  keep  the 
peace  between  us)  had  given  him  some  odd  jobs 
to  do,  in  the  way  of  small  repairs,  here  and  there 
about  the  house.  'You  owe  this,'  he  says,  'to 
my  desire  to  do  a  good  turn  to  your  poor  wife. 
I  am  helping  you  for  her  sake.  Show  yourself 
worthy  to  be  helped,  if  you  can. ' 

"He  said,  as  usual,  that  he  was  going  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf.  Too  late !  The  time  had  gone 
by.  He  was  doomed,  and  I  was  doomed.  It 
didn't  matter  what  he  said  now.     It  didn't  mat- 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  297 

ter  when  he  locked  his  door  again  the  last  thing 
at  night. 

"The  next  day  was  Sunday.  Nothing  hap- 
pened. I  went  to  chapel.  Mere  habit.  It  did 
me  no  good.  He  got  on  a  little  with  the  drink- 
ing— but  still  cunningly,  by  slow  degrees.  I 
knew  by  experience  that  this  meant  a  long  fit, 
and  a  bad  one,  to  come. 

"Monday,  there  were  the  odd  jobs  about  the 
house  to  be  begun.  He  was  by  this  time  just 
sober  enough  to  do  his  work,  and  just  tipsy 
enough  to  take  a  spiteful  pleasure  in  persecuting 
his  wife.  He  went  out  and  got  the  things  he 
wanted,  and  came  back  and  called  for  me.  A 
skilled  workman  like  he  was  (he  said)  wanted 
a  journeyman  under  him.  There  were  things 
which  it  was  beneath  a  skilled  workman  to  do 
for  himself.  He  was  not  going  to  call  in  a  man 
or  a  boy,  and  then  have  to  pay  them.  He  was 
going  to  get  it  done  for  nothing,  and  he  meant 
to  make  a  journeyman  of  me.  Half  tipsy  and 
half  sober,  he  went  on  talking  like  that,  and  lay- 
ing out  his  things,  all  quite  right,  as  he  wanted 
them.  When  they  were  ready  he  straightened 
himself  up,  and  he  gaA^e  me  his  orders  what  I 
was  to  do. 

"I  obeyed  him  to  the  best  of  my  ability. 
Whatever  he  said,  and  whatever  he  did,  I  knew 
he  was  going  as  straight  as  man  could  go  to  his 
own  death  b}^  my  hands. 

"The  rats  and  mice  were  all  over  the  house, 
and  the  place  generally  was  out  of  repair.  He 
ought  to  have  begun  on  the  kitchen-floor;  but 


298  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

(having  sentence  pronounced  against  him)  he 
began  in  the  empty  parlors  on  the  ground- floor. 

"These  parlors  were  separated  by  what  is 
called  a  'lath-and-plaster  wall.'  The  rats  had 
damaged  it.  At  one  part  they  had  gnawed 
through  and  spoiled  the  paper ;  at  another  part 
they  had  not  got  so  far.  The  landlord's  orders 
were  to  spare  the  paper,  because  he  had  some  by 
him  to  match  it.  My  husband  began  at  a  place 
where  the  paper  was  whole.  Under  his  direc- 
tions I  mixed  up — I  won't  say  what.  With  the 
help  of  it  he  got  the  paper  loose  from  the  wall, 
without  injuring  it  in  any  way,  in  a  long,  hang- 
ing strip.  Under  it  was  the  plaster  and  the 
laths,  gnawed  away  in  places  by  the  rats. 
Though  strictly  a  paper-hanger  by  trade,  he 
could  be  plasterer  too  when  he  liked.  I  saw  how 
he  cut  away  the  rotten  laths  and  ripped  off  the 
plaster ;  and  (under  his  directions  again)  I  mixed 
up  the  new  plaster  he  wanted,  and  handed  him 
the  new  laths,  and  saw  how  he  set  them.  I  won't 
say  a  word  about  how  this  was  done  either. 

"I  have  a  reason  for  keeping  silence  here, 
which  is,  to  my  mind,  a  very  dreadful  one.  In 
everything  that  my  husband  made  me  do  that 
day  he  was  showing  me  (blindfold)  the  way  to 
kill  him,  so  that  no  living  soul,  in  the  police  or 
out  of  it,  could  suspect  me  of  the  deed. 

"We  finished  the  job  on  the  wall  just  before 
dark.  I  went  to  my  cup  of  tea,  and  he  went  to 
his  bottle  of  gin. 

"I  left  him,  drinking  hard,  to  put  our  two 
bedrooms  tidy  for  the  night.     The  place  that  his 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  299 

bed  happened  to  be  set  in  (which  I  had  never  re- 
marked particularly  before)  seemed,  in  a  manner 
of  speaking,  to  force  itself  on  my  notice  now. 

' '  The  head  of  the  bedstead  was  set  against  the 
wall  which  divided  his  room  from  mine.  From 
looking  at  the  bedstead  I  got  to  looking  at  the 
wa,ll  next.  Then  to  wondering  what  it  was 
made  of.  Then  to  rapping  against  it  with  my 
knuckles.  The  sound  told  me  there  was  nothing 
but  lath  and  plaster  under  the  paper.  It  was 
the  same  as  the  wall  we  had  been  at  work  on 
down  stairs.  "We  had  cleared  our  way  so  far 
through  this  last — in  certain  places  where  the 
repairs  were  most  needed — that  we  had  to  be 
careful  not  to  burst  through  the  paper  in  the 
room  on  the  other  side.  I  found  mj^seif  calling 
to  mind  the  caution  my  husband  had  given  me 
while  we  were  at  this  part  of  the  work,  word  for 
word  as  he  had  spoken  it.  'Take  care  you  doiiH 
find  your  hands  in  the  next  room.''  That  was 
what  he  had  said  down  in  the  parlor.  Up  in 
his  bedroom  I  kept  on  repeating  it  in  ni}"  own 
mind — with  my  eyes  all  the  while  on  the  key, 
which  he  had  moved  to  the  inner  side  of  the 
door  to  lock  himself  in — till  the  knowledge  of 
what  it  meant  burst  on  me  like  a  flash  of  light. 
I  looked  at  the  wall,  at  the  bed-head,  at  my  own 
two  hands — and  1  shivered  as  if  it  was  winter- 
time. 

"Hours  must  have  passed  like  minutes  while 
I  was  upstairs  that  night.  I  lost  all  count  of 
time.  When  my  husband  came  up  from  his 
drinking,  he  found  me  in  his  room. 


:3()0  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

12. 

"I  leave  the  rest  untold,  and  pass  on  purposely 
to  the  next  morning. 

"No  mortal  eyes  but  mine  will  ever  see  these 
lines.  Still,  there  are  things  a  woman  can't 
write  of  even  to  herself.  I  shall  only  say  this. 
I  suffered  the  last  and  worst  of  many  indignities 
at  my  husband's  hands — at  the  very  time  when 
I  first  saw,  set  plainly  before  me,  the  way  to 
take  his  life.  He  went  out  toward  noon  next 
day,  to  go  his  rounds  among  the  public  houses ; 
my  mind  being  then  strung  up  to  deliver  myself 
from  him,  for  good  and  all,  when  he  came  back 
at  night. 

"The  things  we  had  used  on  the  previous  day 
were  left  in  the  parlor.  I  was  all  by  myself  in 
the  house,  free  to  put  in  practice  the  lesson  he 
had  taught  me.  I  proved  myself  an  apt  scholar. 
Before  the  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  street  I  had 
my  own  way  prepared  (in  my  bedroom  and  in 
his)  for  laying  my  own  hands  on  him — after  he 
had  locked  himself  up  for  the  night. 

"I  don't  remember  feeling  either  fear  or  doubt 
through  all  those  hours.  I  sat  down  to  my  bit 
of  supper  with  no  better  and  no  worse  an  appetite 
than  usual.  The  only  change  in  me  that  I  can 
call  to  mind  was  that  I  felt  a  singular  longing 
to  have  somebody  with  me  to  keep  me  company. 
Having  no  friend  to  ask  in,  I  went  to  the  street 
door  and  stood  looking  at  the  people  passing  this 
way  and  that. 

"A  stray  dog,  sniffing  about,  came  up  to  me. 
Generallv  I  dislike  dogs  and  beasts  of  all  kinds. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  301 

I  called  this  one  iu  and  gave  hiin  his  supper. 
He  had  been  taught  (I  suppose)  to  sit  up  on  his 
hind-legs  and  beg  for  food ;  at  any  rate,  that  was 
his  way  of  asking  me  for  more.  I  laughed — it 
seems  impossible  when  I  look  back  at  it  now, 
but  for  all  that  it's  true — I  laughed  till  the  tears 
ran  down  my  cheeks,  at  the  little  beast  on  his 
haunches,  with  his  ears  pricked  up  and  his 
head  on  one  side  and  his  mouth  watering  for 
the  victuals.  I  wonder  whether  I  was  in  my 
right  senses?     I  don't  know. 

"When  the  dog  had  got  all  he  could  get,  he 
whined  to  be  let  out  to  roam  the  streets  again. 

"As  I  opened  the  door  to  let  the  creature  go 
his  ways,  I  saw  my  husband  crossing  the  road 
to  come  in.  'Keep  out'  (I  says  to  him);  'to- 
night, of  all  nights,  keep  out.'  He  Vv-as  too 
drunk  to  heed  me;  he  passed  by,  and  blundered 
his  way  upstairs.  I  followed  and  listened.  I 
heard  him  open  his  door,  and  bang  it  to,  and 
lock  it.  I  waited  a  bit,  and  went  up  another 
stair  or  two.  I  heard  him  drop  down  on  to  his 
bed.  In  a  minute  more  he  was  fast  asleep  and 
snoring. 

' '  It  had  all  happened  as  it  was  wanted  to  hap- 
pen. In  two  minutes — without  doing  one  single 
thing  to  bring  suspicion  on  mj^self — I  could  have 
smothered  him.  I  went  into  my  own  room.  I 
took  up  the  towel  that  I  had  laid  ready,  I  was 
within  an  inch  of  it — when  there  came  a  rush  of 
something  up  into  n:iy  head,  I  can't  say  what  it 
was.  I  can  only  say  the  horrors  laid  hold  of  me 
and  hunted  me  then  and  there  out  of  the  house. 


302  WORKS   OP   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

"I  put  on  my  bonnet,  and  slipped  the  key  of 
the  street  door  into  my  pocket.  It  was  only 
half -past  nine — or  may  be  a  quarter  to  ten.  If 
I  had  any  one  clear  notion  in  my  head,  it  was 
the  notion  of  running  away,  and  never  allowing 
myself  to  set  eyes  on  the  house  or  the  husband 
more. 

"I  went  up  the  street — and  came  back.  I  went 
down  the  street — and  came  back,  I  tried  it  a 
third  time,  and  went  round  and  round  and  round 
— and  came  back.  It  was  not  to  be  done.  The 
house  held  me  chained,  to  it  like  a  dog  to  his 
kennel.  I  couldn't  keep  away  from  it.  For  the 
life  of  me,  I  couldn't  keep  away  from  it. 

"A  company  of  gay  young  men  and  women 
passed  me,  just  as  I  was  going  to  let  myself  in 
again.  They  were  in  a  great  hurry.  'Step  out,' 
says  one  of  the  men;  'the  theater's  close  by,  and 
we  shall  be  just  in  time  for  the  farce.'  I  turned 
about  and  followed  them.  Having  been  piously 
brought  up,  I  had  never  been  inside  a  theater  in 
my  life.  It  struck  me  that  I  might  get  taken, 
as  it  were,  out  of  myself,  if  I  saw  something 
that  was  quite  strange  to  me,  and  heard  some- 
thing which  would  put  new  thoughts  into  my 
mind. 

"They  went  in  to  the  pit,  and  I  went  in  after 
them. 

"The  thing  they  called  the  farce  had  begun. 
Men  and  vvomen  came  on  to  the  stage,  turn  and 
turn  about,  and  talked,  and  went  off  again.  Be- 
fore long  all  the  people  about  me  in  the  pit  were 
laughing  and  clapping  their  hands.      The  noise 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  303 

they  made  angered  me.  I  don't  know  how  to 
describe  the  state  I  was  in.  My  eyes  wouldn't 
serve  me,  and  my  ears  wouldn't  serve  me,  to  see 
and  to  hear  what  the  rest  of  them  were  seeing 
and  hearing.  There  must  have  been  something, 
I  fancy,  in  iny  mind  that  got  itself  between  me 
and  what  was  going  on  upon  the  stage.  The 
play  looked  fair  enough  on  the  surface;  but 
there  was  danger  and  death  at  the  bottom  of  it. 
The  players  were  talking  and  laughing  to  de- 
ceive the  people — with  murder  in  their  minds  all 
the  time.  And  nobody  knew  it  but  me — and  my 
tongue  was  tied  when  I  tried  to  tell  the  others. 
I  got  up,  and  ran  out.  The  moment  I  was  in 
the  street  my  steps  turned  back  of  themselves  on 
the  way  to  the  house.  I  called  a  cab,  and  told 
the  man  to  drive  (as  far  as  a  shilling  would  take 
me)  the  opposite  way.  He  put  me  down — I  don't 
know  where.  Across  the  street  I  saw  an  inscrip- 
tion in  letters  of  flame  over  an  open  door.  The 
man  said  it  was  a  dancing- place.  Dancing  was 
as  new  to  me  as  play-going.  I  had  one  more 
shilling  left ;  and  I  paid  to  go  in,  and  see  what  a 
sight  of  the  dancing  would  do  for  me.  The  light 
from  the  ceiling  poured  down  in  this  place  as  if 
it  was  all  on  fire.  The  crashing  of  the  music 
was  dreadful.  The  whirling  round  and  round 
of  men  and  woinen  in  each  other's  arms  was 
quite  maddening  to  see.  I  don't  know  what  hap- 
pened to  me  here.  The  great  blaze  of  light  from 
the  ceiling  turned  blood-red  on  a  sudden.  The 
man  standing  in  front  of  the  musicians  waving 
a  stick  took  the  likeness  of  Satan,  as  seen  in  the 


304  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

picture  in  our  family  Bible  at  home.  The  whirl- 
ing men  and  women  went  round  and  round,  with 
white  faces  like  the  faces  of  the  dead,  and  bodies 
robed  in  winding-sheets.  I  screamed  out  with 
the  terror  of  it ;  and  some  person  took  me  by  the 
arm  and  put  me  outside  the  door.  The  darkness 
did  me  good :  it  was  comforting  and  delicious — 
like  a  cool  hand  laid  on  a  hot  head.  I  went 
walking  on  through  it,  without  knowing  where ; 
composing  my  mind  with  the  belief  that  I  had 
lost  my  way,  and  that  I  should  find  myself  miles 
distant  from  home  when  morning  dawned.  After 
some  time  I  got  too  weary  to  go  on,  and  I  sat 
me  down  to  rest  on  a  door- step.  I  dozed  a  bit, 
and  woke  up.  When  I  got  on  my  feet  to  go  on 
again,  I  happened  to  turn  my  head  toward  the 
door  of  the  house.  The  number  on  it  was  the 
same  number  as  ours.  I  looked  again.  And 
behold,  it  was  our  steps  I  had  been  resting  on. 
The  door  was  our  door. 

"All  my  doubts  and  all  iny  struggles  dropped 
out  of  my  mind  when  I  made  that  discovery. 
There  was  no  mistaking  what  this  perpetual 
coming  back  to  the  house  meant.  Resist  it  as 
I  might,  it  was  to  be. 

"I  opened  the  street  door  and  went  upstairs, 
and  heard  him  sleeping  his  heavy  sleep,  exactly 
as  I  had  heard  him  when  I  went  out.  I  sat  down 
on  my  bed  and  took  off  my  bonnet,  quite  quiet 
in  myself,  because  I  knew  it  was  to  be.  I 
damped  the  towel  and  put  it  ready,  and  took  a 
turn  in  the  room. 

"It  was  just  the  dawn  of  day.     The  sparrows 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  ;i05 

were  chirping  among  the  trees  in  the  square  hard 

by. 

"I  drew  up  my  blind;  the  faint  light  spoke  to 
me  as  if  in  words,  'Do  it  now,  before  I  get 
brighter,  and  show  too  much.' 

"I  listened.  The  friendly  silence  had  a  word 
for  me  too:  'Do  it  now,  and  trust  the  secret  to 
Me.' 

"I  waited  till  the  church  clock  chimed  before 
striking  the  hour.  At  the  first  stroke— without 
touching  the  lock  of  his  door,  without  setting 
foot  in  his  room — I  had  the  towel  over  his  face. 
Before  the  last  stroke  he  had  ceased  struggling. 
When  the  hum  of  the  bell  through  the  morning 
silence  was  still  and  dead,  he  was  still  and  dead 
with  it, 

13. 

"The  rest  of  this  history  is  counted  in  my 
mind  by  four  days — Wednesday,  Thursday,  Fri- 
day, Saturdaj".  After  that  it  all  fades  off  like, 
and  the  new  years  come  with  a  strange  look,  be- 
ing the  years  of  a  new  life. 

"What  about  the  old  life  first?  What  did  I 
feel,  in  the  horrid  quiet  of  the  morning,  when 
I  had  done  it? 

"I  don't  know  what  I  felt.  I  can't  remember 
it,  or  I  can't  tell  it,  I  don't  know  which.  I  can 
write  the  history  of  the  four  days,  and  that's  all. 

"  Wednesday. —I  gave  the  alarm  toward  noon. 
Hours  before,  I  had  put  things  straight  and  fit 
to  be  seen.  I  had  only  to  call  for  help,  and  to 
leave  the  people  to  do  as  they  pleased.      The 


306  WORKS    OF    WILKIE     COLLINS. 

neighbors  came  in,  and  then  the  police.  They 
knocked,  uselessly,  at  his  door.  Then  they 
broke  it  open,  and  found  him  dead  in  his  bed. 

"Not  the  ghost  of  a  suspicion  of  me  entered 
the  mind  of  any  one.  There  was  no  fear  of  hu- 
man justice  finding  me  out :  my  one  unutterable 
dread  was  dread  of  an  Avenging  Providence.  I 
had  a  short  sleep  that  night,  and  a  dream,  in 
which  I  did  the  deed  over  again.  For  a  time 
my  mind  was  busy  with  thoughts  of  confessing 
to  the  police,  and  of  giving  mj^self  up.  If  I  had 
not  belonged  to  a  respectable  family,  I  should 
have  done  it.  From  generation  to  generation 
there  had  been  no  stain  on  our  good  name.  It 
would  be  death  to  my  father,  and  disgrace  to  all 
my  family,  if  I  owned  what  I  had  done,  and 
suffered  for  it  on  the  public  scaffold.  I  jDrayed 
to  be  guided;  and  I  had  a  revelation,  toward 
morning,  of  what  to  do. 

"I  was  commanded,  in  a  vision,  to  open  the 
Bible,  and  vow  on  it  to  set  my  guilty  self  apart 
among  my  innocent  fellow -creatures  from  that 
day  forth;  to  live  among  them  a  separate  and 
silent  life ;  to  dedicate  the  use  of  my  speech  to 
the  language  of  prayer  only,  offered  up  in  the 
solitude  of  my  own  chamber,  v/hen  no  human 
ear  could  hear  me.  Alone,  in  the  morning,  I  sav*^ 
the  vision,  and  vowed  the  vow.  ]^o  human  ear 
has  heard  me  from  that  time.  No  human  ear 
ivill  hear  me,  to  the  day  of  my  death. 

"Thursday. — The  people  came  to  speak  to  me, 
as  usual.     They  found  me  dumb. 

"What  had  happened  to  me  in  the  past,  when 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  307 

my  head  had  been  hurt,  and  my  speech  affected 
by  it,  gave  a  HkeKer  look  to  my  dumbness  than 
it  might  have  borne  in  the  case  of  another  per- 
son. They  took  me  back  again  to  the  hospital. 
The  doctors  were  divided  in  opinion.  Some  said 
the  shock  of  what  had  taken  place  in  the  house, 
coming  on  tiie  back  of  the  other  shock,  might, 
for  all  the}*  knew,  have  done  the  mischief.  And 
others  said,  'She  got  her  speech  again  after  the 
accident;  there  has  been  no  new  injury  since 
that  time;  the  woman  is  shamming  dumb,  for 
some  purpose  of  her  own.'  I  let  them  dispute  it 
as  they  liked.  All  human  talk  was  nothing  now 
to  me.  I  had  set  myself  apart  among  my  fel- 
low-creatures; I  had  begun  my  separate  and 
silent  life. 

"Through  all  this  time  the  sense  of  a  coming 
punishment  hanging  over  me  never  left  my 
mind.  I  had  nothing  to  dread  from  human 
justice.  The  judgment  of  an  Avenging  Provi- 
dence— ^there  was  what  I  was  waiting  for. 

' '  Friday.  ■ — They  held  the  inquest.  He  had  been 
known  for  years  past  as  an  inveterate  drunkard ; 
he  had  been  seen  overnight  going  home  in  liquor ; 
he  had  been  found  locked  up  in  his  room,  with 
the  key  inside  the  door,  and  the  latch  of  the  win- 
dow bolted  also.  ISTo  fireplace  was  in  this  gar- 
ret; nothing  was  disturbed  or  altered;  nobody 
by  human  possibility  could  have  got  in.  The 
doctor  report^^d  that  he  had  died  of  congestion 
of  the  lungs ;  and  the  jury  gave  their  verdict 
accordingly. 


308  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

14. 

"Saturday. — Marked  forever  in  my  calendar 
as  the  memorable  day  on  which  the  judgment 
descended  on  me.  Toward  three  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon — in  the  broad  sunlight,  under  the 
cloudless  sky,  with  hundreds  of  innocent  human 
creatures  all  around  me — I,  Hester  Dethridge, 
saw,  for  the  first  time,  the  Appearance  which  is 
appointed  to  haunt  me  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 

"I  had  had  a  terrible  night.  My  mind  felt 
much  as  it  had  felt  on  the  evening  when  I  had 
gone  to  the  play.  I  went  out  to  see  what  the 
air  and  the  sunshine  and  the  cool  green  of  trees 
and  grass  would  do  for  me.  The  nearest  place 
in  which  I  could  find  what  I  wanted  was  the 
Regent's  Park.  I  went  into  one  of  the  quiet 
walks  in  the  middle  of  the  park,  where  the 
horses  and  carriages  are  not  allowed  to  go,  and 
where  old  people  can  sun  themselves,  and  chil- 
dren play,  without  danger. 

"I  sat  me  down  to  rest  on  a  bench.  Among 
the  children  near  me  was  a  beautiful  little  boy, 
playing  with  a  brand-new  toy — a  horse  and 
wagon.  While  I  was  watching  him  busily 
plucking  up  the  blades  of  grass  and  loading  his 
wagon  with  them,  I  felt  for  the  first  time — what 
I  have  often  and  often  felt  since — a  creeping  chill 
come  slowly  over  my  flesh,  and  then  a  suspi- 
cion of  something  hidden  near  me,  which  would 
steal  out  and  show  itself  if  I  looked  that  way. 

"There  was  a  big  tree  hard  by.  I  looked  to- 
ward the  tree,  and  waited  to  see  the  sometliing 
hidden  appear  from  behind  it. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  30i) 

"The  Thing  stole  out,  dark  and  shadowy  in 
the  pleasant  sunlight.  At  first  I  saw  only  the 
dim  figure  of  a  woman.  After  a  little  it  began 
to  get  plainer,  brightening  from  within  outward 
— brightening,  brightening,  brightening,  till  it 
set  before  me  the  vision  of  my  own  self,  re- 
peated as  if  I  was  standing  before  a  glass — the 
double  of  myself,  looking  at  me  with  my  own 
eyes.  I  saw  it  over  the  grass.  I  saw  it  stop  be- 
hind the  beautiful  little  boy.  I  saw  it  stand  and 
listen,  as  I  had  stood  and  listened  at  the  dawn  of 
morning,  for  the  chiming  of  the  bell  before  the 
clock  struck  the  hour.  When  it  heard  the  stroke  ' 
it  pointed  down  to  the  boy  with  my  own  hand; 
and  it  said  to  me,  with  my  own  voice,  'Kill  him.' 

"A  time  passed.  I  don't  know  whether  it  was 
a  minute  or  an  hour.  The  heavens  and  the  earth 
disappeared  from  before  me.  I  saw  nothing  but 
the  double  of  myself,  with  the  pointing  hand.  I 
felt  nothing  but  the  longing  to  kill  the  boy. 

"Then,  as  it  seemed,  the  heavens  and  the  earth 
rushed  back  upon  me.  I  saw  the  people  near 
staring  in  surprise  at  me,  and  wondering  if  I 
was  in  my  right  mind. 

"I  got,  by  main  force,  to  my  feet;  I  looked, 
by  main  force,  away  from  the  beautiful  boy ;  I 
escaped,  by  main  force,  from  the  sight  of  the 
Thing,  back  into  the  streets.  I  can  only  describe 
the  overpowering  strength  of  the  temptation  that 
tried  me  in  one  way.  It  was  like  tearing  the 
life  out  of  me  to  tear  myself  from  killing  the 
boy.  And  what  it  was  on  this  occasion  it  has 
been  ever  since.     No  remedy  against  it  but  in 


olO  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

that  torturing  effort,  and  no  quenching  the  after- 
agony  but  by  solitude  and  prayer. 

"The  sense  of  a  coming  punishjnent  had  hung 
over  me.  And  the  punishment  had  come.  I 
had  waited  for  the  judgment  of  an  Avenging 
Providence.  And  the  judgment  was  pronounced. 
With  pious  David  I  could  nov^  say,  Thy  fierce 
wrath  goeth  over  me ;  Thy  terrors  have  cut  me 
off." 


Arrived  at  that  point  in  the  narrative,  Geof- 
frey looked  up  from  the  manuscript  for  the  first 
time.  Some  sound  outside  the  room  had  dis- 
turbed him.     Was  it  a  sound  in  the  passage? 

He  listened.  There  was  an  interval  of  silence. 
He  looked  back  again  at  the  Confession,  turning 
over  the  last  leaves  to  count  how  much  was  left 
of  it  before  it  came  to  an  end. 

After  relating  the  circumstances  under  which 
the  writer  had  returned  to  domestic  service,  the 
narrative  was  resumed  no  more.  Its  few  re- 
maining pages  were  occupied  by  a  fragmentary 
journal.  The  brief  entries  all  referred  to  the 
various  occasions  on  which  Hester  Dethridge 
had  again  and  again  seen  the  terrible  apparition 
of  herself,  and  had  again  and  again  resisted  the 
homicidal  frenzy  roused  in  her  by  the  hideous 
creation  of  her  own  distempered  brain.  In  the 
effort  which  that  resistance  cost  her  lay  the  secret 
of  her  obstinate  determination  to  insist  on  being 
freed  from  her  work  at  certain  times,  and  to 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  311 

make  it  a  condition  with  any  mistress  who 
employed  her  that  she  should  be  privileged  to 
sleep  in  a  room  of  her  own  at  night.  Having 
counted  the  pages  thus  filled,  Geoffrey  turned 
back  to  the  place  at  which  he  had  left  off,  to 
read  the  manusci'ipt  through  to  the  end. 

As  his  eyes  rested  on  the  first  line  the  noise  in 
the  passage — intermitted  for  a  moment  only — 
disturbed  him  again. 

This  time  there  was  no  doubt  of  what  the 
sound  implied.  He  heard  her  hurried  footsteps ; 
he  heard  her  dreadful  cry.  Hester  Dethridge 
had  woke  in  her  chair  in  the  parlor,  and  had  dis- 
covered that  the  Confession  was  no  longer  in  her 
own  hands. 

He  put  the  manuscript  into  the  breast-pocket 
of  his  coat.  On  this  occasion  his  reading  had 
been  of  some  use  to  him.  Needless  to  go  on 
further  with  it.  Needless  to  return  to  the  New- 
gate Calendar.     The  problem  was  solved. 

As  he  rose  to  his  feet  his  heavy  face  bright- 
ened slowly  with  a  terrible  smile.  "While  the 
woman's  Confession  was  in  his  pocket  the  wo- 
man herself  was  in  his  power.  "If  she  wants  it 
back,"  he  said,  "she  must  get  it  on  my  terms." 
"With  that  resolution  he  opened  the  door  and  met 
Hester  Dethridge  face  to  face  in  the  passage. 


A^ol.  4  11— 


312  WORKS    OF   WILKIE    COLLINS. 

CHAPTER  THE   FIFTY-FIFTH. 

THE   SIGNS   OF   THE   END. 

The  servant,  appearing  the  next  morning  in 
Anne's  room  with  the  breakfast  tray,  closed  the 
door  with  an  air  of  mystery,  and  announced  that 
strange  things  were  going  on  in  the  house. 

"Did  you  hear  nothing  last  night,  ma'am," 
she  asked,  "downstairs  in  the  passage?" 

"I  thought  I  heard  some  voices  whispering 
outside  my  room,"  Anne  replied.  "Has  any- 
thing happened?" 

Extricated  from  the  confusion  in  which  she 
involved  it,  the  girl's  narrative  amounted  in  sub- 
stance to  this :  She  had  been  startled  by  the  sud- 
den appearance  of  her  mistress  in  the  passage, 
staring  about  her  wildly,  like  a  woman  who  had 
gone  out  of  her  senses.  Almost  at  the  same  mo- 
ment "the  master"  had  flung  open  the  drawing- 
room  door.  He  had  caught  Mrs.  Dethridge  by 
the  arm,  had  dragged  her  into  the  room,  and 
had  closed  the  door  again.  After  the  two  had 
remained  shut  up  together  for  more  than  half 
an  hour,  Mrs.  Dethridge  had  come  out  as  pale 
as  ashes,  and  had  gone  upstairs  trembling  like  a 
person  in  great  terror.  Some  time  later,  when 
the  servant  was  in  bed,  but  not  asleep,  she  had 
vseen  a  light  under  her  door,  in  the  narrow  wooden 
passage  which  separated  Anne's  bedroom  from 
Hester's  bedroom,  and  by  which  she  obtained 
access  to  her  own  little  sleeping- chamber  beyond. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  313 

She  had  got  out  of  bed ;  had  looked  through  the 
key-hole;  and  had  seen  "the  master"  and  Mrs. 
Dethridge  standing  together  examining  th.e 
walls  of  the  passage.  "The  master"  had  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  wall,  on  the  side  of  his  wife's 
room,  and  had  looked  at  Mrs.  Dethridge.  And 
Mrs.  Dethridge  had  looked  back  at  him,  and 
had  shaken  her  head.  Upon  that  he  had  said  in 
a  whisper  (still  with  his  hand  on  the  wooden 
wall),  "Not  to  be  done  here?"  And  Mrs.  Deth- 
ridge had  shaken  her  head.  He  had  considered 
a  moment,  and  had  whispered  again,  "The  other 
room  will  do,  won't  it?"  And  Mrs.  Dethridge 
had  nodded  her  head — and  so  they  had  parted. 
That  was  the  story  of  the  night.  Early  in  the 
morning,  more  strange  things  had  happened. 
The  master  had  gone  out,  with  a  large  sealed 
packet  in  his  hand,  covered  with  many  stamps ; 
taking  his  own  letter  to  the  post,  instead  of  send- 
ing the  servant  with  it  as  usual.  On  his  return, 
Mrs.  Dethridge  had  gone  out  next,  and  had 
come  back  with  something  in  a  jar  which  she 
had  locked  up  in  her  own  sitting-room.  Shortl}'^ 
afterward,  a  workingman  had  brought  a  bundle 
of  laths,  and  some  mortar  and  plaster  of  Paris, 
which  had  been  carefully  placed  together  in  a 
corner  of  the  scullery.  Last,  and  most  remark- 
able in  the  series  of  domestic  events,  the  girl  had 
received  permission  to  go  home  and  see  her 
friends  in  the  country,  on  that  very  day;  hav- 
ing been  previously  informed,  when  she  entered 
Mrs.  Dethridge's  service,  that  she  was  not  to 
expect  to  have  a  holiday  granted  to  her  until 


3ii  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

after  Christmas.  Such  were  the  strange  things 
which  had  happened  in  the  house  since  the  pre- 
vious night.  What  was  the  interpretation  to  be 
placed  on  them? 

The  right  interpretation  was  not  easy  to  dis- 
cover. 

Some  of  the  events  pointed  apparently  toward 
coming  repairs  or  alterations  in  the  cottage.  But 
what  Geoffrey  could  have  to  do  with  them  (be- 
ing at  the  time  served  with  a  notice  to  quit), 
and  why  Hester  Dethridge  should  have  shown 
the  violent  agitation  which  had  been  described, 
were  mysteries  which  it  was  impossible  to  pene- 
trate. 

Anne  dismissed  the  girl  with  a  little  present 
and  a  few  kind  words.  Under  other  circum- 
stances, the  incomprehensible  proceedings  in  the 
house  might  have  made  her  seriously  uneasy. 
But  her  mind  was  now  occupied  by  more  press- 
ing anxieties.  Blanche's  second  letter  (received 
from  Hester  Dethridge  on  the  previous  evening) 
informed  her  that  Sir  Patrick  persisted  in  his 
resolution,  and  that  he  and  his  niece  might  be 
expected,  come  what  might  of  it,  to  present 
themselves  at  the  cottage  on  that  day. 

Anne  opened  the  letter  and  looked  at  it  for  the 
second  time.  The  passages  relating  to  Sir  Pat- 
rick were  expressed  in  these  terms : 

"I  don't  think,  darling,  you  have  any  idea  of 
the  interest  that  you  have  roused  in  my  uncle. 
Although  he  has  not  to  reproach  himself,  as  I 
have,  with  being  the  miserable  cause  of  the  sac- 
rifice that  you  have  made,  he  is  quite  as  wretched 


MAN  AND  WIFE.  315 

and  quite  as  anxious  about  you  as  I  am.  We 
talk  of  nobody  else.  He  said  last  night  that  he 
did  not  believe  there  was  your  equal  in  the  world. 
Think  of  that  from  a  man  who  has  such  terribly 
sharp  eyes  for  the  faults  of  women  in  general, 
and  such  a  terribly  sharp  tongue  in  talking  of 
them !  I  am  pledged  to  secrecy ;  but  I  must  tell 
you  one  other  thing  between  ourselves.  Lord 
Holchester's  announcement  that  his  brother  re- 
fuses to  consent  to  a  separation  put  my  uncle 
almost  beside  himself.  If  there  is  not  some 
change  for  the  better  in  your  life  in  a  few  days' 
time,  Sir  Patrick  will  find  out  a  way  of  his  own 
— lawful  or  not,  he  doesn't  care — for  rescuing 
you  from  the  dreadful  position  in  which  you  are 
placed,  and  Arnold  (with  my  full  approval)  will 
help  him.  As  we  understand  it,  you  are,  under 
one  pretense  or  another,  kept  a  close  prisoner. 
Sir  Patrick  has  already  secured  a  post  of  obser- 
vation near  you.  He  and  Arnold  went  all  round 
the  cottage  last  night,  and  examined  a  door  in 
your  back  garden  wall,  with  a  locksmith  to  help 
them.  You  will  no  doubt  hear  further  about 
this  from  Sir  Patrick  himself.  Pray  don't  ap- 
pear to  know  anything  of  it  when  you  see  him ! 
I  am  not  in  his  confidence — but  Arnold  is,  which 
comes  to  the  same  thing  exactly.  You  will  see 
us  (I  mean  you  will  see  my  uncle  and  me)  to- 
morrow, in  spite  of  the  brute  who  keeps  you 
under  lock  and  key.  Arnold  will  not  accompany 
us ;  he  is  not  to  be  trusted  (he  owns  it  himself) 
to  control  his  indignation.  Courage,  dearest! 
There  are  two  people  in  the  world  to  whom  j^ou 


316  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

are  inestimably  precious,  and  who  are  deter- 
mined not  to  let  your  happiness  be  sacrificed. 
I  am  one  of  them,  and  (for  Heaven's  sake  keep 
this  a  secret  also !)  Sir  Patrick  is  the  other. ' ' 

Absorbed  in  the  letter,  and  in  the  conflict  of 
opposite  feelings  which  it  roused — her  color  ris- . 
ing  when  it  turned  her  thoughts  inward  on  her- 
self, and  fading  again  when  she  was  reminded 
by  it  of  the  coming  visit — Anne  was  called  back 
to  a  sense  of  present  events  bj^  the  re-appearance 
of  the  servant,  charged  with  a  message.  Mr. 
Speedwell  had  been  for  some  time  in  the  cottage, 
and  he  was  now  waiting  to  see  her  downstairs. 

Anne  found  the  surgeon  alone  in  the  drawing- 
room.  He  apologized  for  disturbing  her  at  that 
early  hour. 

"It  was  impossible  for  me  to  get  to  Fulham 
yesterday, ' '  he  said,  "and  I  could  only  make  sure 
of  complying  with  Lord  Holchester's  request  by 
coming  here  before  the  time  at  which  I  receive 
patients  at  home.  I  have  seen  Mr.  Delamayn, 
and  I  have  requested  permission  to  say  a  word 
to  you  on  the  subject  of  his  health." 

Anne  looked  through  the  window,  and  saw 
Geoffrey  smoking  his  pipe — not  in  the  back  gar- 
den, as  usual,  but  in  front  of  the  cottage,  where 
he  could  keep  his  eye  on  the  gate. 

"Is  he  ill?"  she  asked. 

"He  is  seriously  ill,"  answered  Mr.  Speed- 
well. "I  should  not  otherwise  have  troubled 
you  with  this  interview.  It  is  a  matter  of  pro- 
fessional duty  to  warn  you,  as  his  wife,  that  he 
is  in  danger.     He  may  be  seized  at  any  moment 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  317 

by  a  paralytic  stroke.  The  only  chance  for  him 
— a  very  poor  one,  I  am  bound  to  say — ^is  to  make 
him  alter  his  present  mode  of  life  without  loss  of 
time." 

"In  one  way  he  will  be  obliged  to  alter  it," 
said  Anne.  "He  has  received  notice  from  the 
landlady  to  quit  this  cottage." 

Mr.  SpeedwelHooked  surprised. 

"I  think  you  will  find  that  the  notice  has  been 
withdrawn,"  he  said.  "I  can  only  assure  you 
that  Mr.  Delamayn  distinctly  informed  me,  when 
I  advised  change  of  air,  that  he  had  decided,  for 
reasons  of  his  own,  on  remaining  here." 

(Another  in  the  series  of  incomprehensible  do- 
mestic events !  Hester  Dethridge — on  all  other 
occasions  the  most  immovable  of  women — had 
changed  her  mind!) 

"Setting  that  aside,"  proceeded  the  surgeon, 
"there  are  two  preventive  measures  which  I  feel 
bound  to  suggest.  Mr.  Delamayn  is  evidently 
suffering  (though  he  declines  to  admit  it  him- 
self) from  mental  anxiety.  If  he  is  to  have  a 
chance  for  his  life,  that  anxiety  must  be  set  at 
rest.     Is  it.in  your  power  to  relieve  it?" 

"It  is  not  even  in  my  power,  Mr.  Speedwell, 
to  tell  you  what  it  is." 

The  surgeon  bowed,  and  went  on : 

"The  second  caution  that  I  have  to  give  you," 
he  said,  "is  to  keep  him  from  drinking  spirits. 
He  admits  having  committed  an  excess  in  that 
way  the  night  before  last.  In  his  state  of  health, 
drinking  means  literally  death.  If  he  goes  back 
to  the  brandy-bottle — forgive  me  for  saying  it 


318  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

plainly ;  the  matter  is  too  serious  to  be  trifled 
with^ — if  he  goes  back  to  the  brandy-bottle,  his 
life,  in  my  opinion,  is  not  worth  five  minutes' 
purchase.     Can  you  keep  him  from  drinking?" 

Anne  answered  sadly  and  plainly : 

"I  have  no  influence  over  him.  The  terms 
we  are  living  on  here — " 

Mr.  Speedwell  considerately  stopped  her. 

"I  understand,"  he  said.  "I  will  see  his 
brother  on  my  way  home."  He  looked  for  a 
moment  at  Anne.  "You  are  far  from  well  your- 
self," he  resumed.  "Can  I  do  anything  for  you?" 

"While  I  am  living  my  present  life,  Mr. 
Speedwell,  not   even  your  skill  can  help   me." 

The  surgeon  took  his  leave.  Anne  hurried 
back  upstairs,  before  Geoffrey  could  re-enter  the 
cottage.  To  see  the  man  who  had  laid  her  life 
waste — to  meet  the  vindictive  hatred  that  looked 
furtively  at  her  out  of  his  eyes — at  the  moment 
when  sentence  of  death  had  been  pronounced  on 
him,  was  an  ordeal  from  which  every  finer  in- 
stinct in  her  nature  shrank  in  horror. 

Hour  by  hour  the  morning  wore  on,  and  he 
made  no  attempt  to  communicate  with  her. 
Stranger  still,  Hester  Dethridge  never  appeared. 
The  servant  came  upstairs  to  say  good-by ;  and 
went  away  for  her  holiday.  Shortly  afterward, 
certain  sounds  reached  Anne's  ears  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  passage.  She  hear  the  strokes 
of  a  hammer,  and  then  a  noise  as  of  some  heavy 
piece  of  furniture  being  moved.  The  mysterious 
repairs  were  apparently  being  begun  in  the  spare 
room. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  319 

She  went  to  the  window.  The  hour  was  ap- 
proaching at  which  Sir  Patrick  and  Blanche 
might  be  expected  to- make  the  attempt  to  see  her. 

For  the  third  time  she  looked  at  the  letter. 

It  suggested,  on  this  occasion,  a  new  consid- 
eration to  her.  Did  the  strong  measures  which 
Sir  Patrick  had  taken  in  secret  indicate  alarm  as 
well  as  sympathy?  Did  he  believe  she  was  in  a 
position  in  which  the  protection  of  the  law  was 
powerless  to  reach  her?  It  seemed  just  possible. 
Suppose  she  were  free  to  consult  a  magistrate, 
and  to  own  to  him  (if  words  could  express  it) 
the  vague  presentiment  of  danger  which  was 
then  present  in  her  mind — what  proof  could  she 
produce  to  satisfy  the  mind  of  a  stranger?  The 
proofs  were  all  in  her  husband's  favor.  Wit- 
nesses could  testify  to  the  conciliatory  words 
which  he  had  spoken  to  her  in  their  presence. 
The  evidence  of  his  mother  and  brother  would 
show  that  he  had  preferred  to  sacrifice  his  own 
pecuniary  interests  rather  than  consent  to  part 
with  her.  She  could  furnish  nobody  with  the 
smallest  excuse,  in  her  case,  for  interfering  be- 
tween man  and  wife.  Did  Sir  Patrick  see  this? 
And  did  Blanche's  description  of  what  he  and 
Arnold  Brinkworth  were  doing  point  to  the  con- 
clusion that  they  were  taking  the  law  into  their 
own  hands  in  despair?  The  more  she  thought 
of  it,  the  more  likely  it  seemed. 

She  was  still  pursuing  the  train  of  thought 
thus  suggested,  when  the  gate-bell  rang. 

The  noises  in  the  spare  room  suddenly  stopped. 

Anne  looked  out.     The  roof  of  a  carriage  was 


320  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

visible  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall.  Sir  Pat- 
rick and  Blanche  had  arrived.  After  an  interval 
Hester  Dethridge  appeared  in  the  garden,  and 
went  to  the  grating  in  the  gate.  Anne  heard 
Sir  Patrick's  voice,  clear  and  resolute.  Every 
word  he  said  reached  her  ears  through  the  open 
window. 

"Be  so  good  as  to  give  my  card  to  Mr.  Dela- 
mayn.  Say  that  I  bring  him  a  message  from 
Holchester  House,  and  that  I  can  only  deliver  it 
at  a  personal  interview." 

Hester  Dethridge  returned  to  the  cottage. 
Another  and  a  longer  interval  elapsed.  At  the 
end  of  the  time,  Geoffrey  himself  appeared  in 
the  front  garden,  with  the  key  in  his  hand. 
Anne's  heart  throbbed  fast  as  she  saw  him 
unlock  the  gate,  and  asked  herself  what  was  to 
follow. 

To  her  unutterable  astonishment,  Geoffrey  ad- 
mitted Sir  Patrick  without  the  slightest  hesita- 
tion— and,  more  still,  he  invited  Blanche  to  leave 
the  carriage  and  come  in ! 

"Let  bygones  be  bygones,"  Anne  heard  him 
say  to  Sir  Patrick.  "I  only  want  to  do  the  right 
thing.  If  it's  the  right  thing  for  visitors  to 
come  here  so  soon  after  my  father's  death,  come, 
and  welcome.  My  own  notion  was,  when  you 
proposed  it  before,  that  it  was  wrong.  I  am  not 
much  versed  in  these  things.    I  leave  it  to  j^ou." 

' '  A  visitor  who  brings  you  messages  from  your 
mother  and  your  brother, ' '  Sir  Patrick  answered, 
gravely,  "is  a  person  whom  it  is  your  duty  to 
admit,  Mr.  Delamayn,  under  any  ciroumstances. " 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  321 

"And  he  ought  to  be  none  the  less  welcome," 
added  Blanche,  "when  he  is  accompanied  by 
your  wife's  oldest  and  dearest  friend." 

Geoffrey  looked  in  stolid  submission  from  one 
to  the  other. 

"I  am  not  much  versed  in  these  things,"  he 
repeated.  "I  have  said  already,  I  leave  it  to 
you." 

They  were  by  this  time  close  under  Anne's 
window.  She  showed  herself.  Sir  Patrick  took 
off  his  hat.  Blanche  kissed  her  hand  with  a  cry 
of  joy,  and  attempted  to  enter  the  cottage. 
Geoffrey  stopped  her— and  called  to  his  wife  to 
come  down. 

"jSTo,  no!"  said  Blanche.  "Let  me  go  up  to 
her  in  her  room." 

She  attempted  for  the  second  time  to  gain  the 
stairs.  For  the  second  time,  Geoffrey  stopped 
her.  "Don't  trouble  yourself , "  he  said;  "she  is 
coming  down." 

Anne  joined  them  in  the  front  garden.  Blanche 
flew  into  her  arms  and  devoured  her  with  kisses. 
Sir  Patrick  took  her  hand  in  silence.  For  the 
first  time  in  Anne's  experience  of  him,  the 
bright,  resolute,  self-reliant  old  man  was,  for  the 
moment,  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  at  a  loss  what  to 
do.  His  eyes,  resting  on  her  in  mute  sympathy 
and  interest,  said  plainly,  "In  your  husband's 
presence  I  must  not  trust  myself  to  speak." 

Geoffrey  broke  the  silence. 

"Will  you  go  into  the  drawing-room ?"  he 
asked,  looking  with  steady  attention  at  his  wife 
and  Blanche. 


322  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Geoffrey's  voice  appeared  to  rouse  Sir  Patrick. 
He  raised  his  head — he  looked  like  himself  again. 

"Why  go  indoors  this  lovely  weather?"  he 
said.     "Suppose  we  take  a  turn  in  the  garden?" 

Blanche  pressed  Anne's  hand  significantly. 
The  proposal  was  evidently  made  for  a  purpose. 
They  turned  the  corner  of  the  cottage  and  gained 
the  large  garden  at  the  back — the  two  ladies 
walking  together  arm  in  arm;  Sir  Patrick 
and  Geoffrey  following  them.  Little  by  little, 
Blanche  quickened  her  pace.  "I  have  got  my 
instructions,"  she  whispered  to  Anne.  "Let's 
get  out  of  his  hearing. ' ' 

It  was  more  easily  said  than  done.  Geoffrey 
kept  close  behind  them. 

"Consider  my  lameness,  Mr.  Delamayn,"  said 
Sir  Patrick.     "  Not  quite  so  fast. " 

It  was  well  intended.  But  Geoffrey's  cun- 
ning had  taken  the  alarm.  Instead  of  dropping 
behind  with  Sir  Patrick,  he  called  to  his  wife. 

"Consider  Sir  Patrick's  lameness,"  he  re- 
peated.    "Not  quite  so  fast." 

Sir  Patrick  met  that  check  with  characteristic 
readiness.  When  Anne  slackened  her  pace,  he 
addressed  himself  to  Geoffrey,  stopping  deliber- 
ately in  the  middle  of  the  path.  ' '  Let  me  give 
you  my  message  from  Holchester  House,"  he 
said.  The  two  ladies  were  still  slowly  walking 
on.  Geoffrey  was  placed  between  the  alterna- 
tives of  staying  with  Sir  Patrick  and  leaving 
them  by  themselves,  or  of  following  them  and 
leaving  Sir  Patrick.  Deliberately,  on  his  side, 
he  followed  the  ladies. 


MAN    AND   WIFE.  ;}23 

Sir  Patrick  called  him  back.  "I  told  you  I 
wished  to  speak  to  you,"  he  said,  sharply. 

Driven  to  bay,  Geoffrey  openly  revealed  his 
resolution  to  give  Blanche  no  opportunity  of 
speaking  in  private  to  Anne.  He  called  to  Anne 
to  stop. 

"I  have  no  secrets  from  my  wife,"  he  said. 
"And  I  expect  my  wife  to  have  no  secrets  from 
me.     Give  me  the  message  in  her  hearing." 

Sir  Patrick's  eyes  brightened  with  indignation. 
He  controlled  himself,  and  looked  for  an  instant 
significantly  at  his  niece  before  he  spoke  to  Geof- 
frey. 

"As  you  please,"  he  said.  "Your  brother 
requests  me  to  tell  you  that  the  duties  of  the 
new  position  in  which  he  is  placed  occupy  the 
whole  of  his  time,  and  will  prevent  him  from 
returning  to  Fulham,  as  he  had  proposed,  for 
some  days  to  come.  Lady  Holchester,  hearing 
that  I  was  likely  to  see  you,  has  charged  me 
with  another  message  from  herself.  She  is  not 
well  enough  to  leave  home ;  and  she  wishes  to 
see  you  at  Holchester  House  to-morrow — accom- 
panied (as  she  specially  desires)  by  Mrs.  Dela- 
mayn." 

In  giving  the  two  messages,  he  gradually 
raised  his  voice  to  a  louder  tone  than  usual. 
While  he  was  speaking,  Blanche  (warned  to 
follow  her  instructions  by  the  glance  her  uncle 
had  cast  at  her)  lowered  her  voice,  and  said  to 
Anne: 

"He  won't  consent  to  the  separation  as  long  as 
he  has  got  you  here.     He  is  trying  for  higher 


324  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

terms.  Leave  him,  and  he  must  submit.  Put 
a  candle  in  your  window,  if  you  can  get  into  the 
garden  to-night.  If  not,  any  other  night.  Make 
for  the  back  gate  in  the  wall.  Sir  Patrick  and 
Arnold  will  manage  the  rest." 

She  slipped  those  words  into  Anne's  ears — 
swinging  her  parasol  to  and  fro,  and  looking  as 
if  the  merest  gossip  was  dropping  from  her  lips 
— with  the  dexterity  which  rarely  fails  a  woman 
when  she  is  called  on  to  assist  a  deception  in 
which  her  own  interests  are  concerned.  Cleverly 
as  it  had  been  done,  however,  Geoffrey's  invet- 
erate distrust  was  stirred  into  action  by  it. 
Blanche  had  got  to  her  last  sentence  before  he 
was  able  to  turn  his  attention  from  what  Sir  Pat- 
rick was  saying  to  what  his  niece  was  saying. 
A  quicker  man  would  have  heard  more.  Geof- 
frey had  only  distinctly  heard  the  first '  half  of 
the  last  sentence. 

"What's  that,"  he  asked,  "about  Sir  Patrick 
and  Arnold?" 

"Nothing  very  interesting  to  you,"  Blanche 
answered,  readily.  "I  will  repeat  it  if  you  like. 
I  was  telling  Anne  about  my  stepmother,  Lady 
Lundie.  After  what  happened  that  day  in  Port- 
land Place,  she  has  requested  Sir  Patrick  and 
Arnold  to  consider  themselves,  for  the  future,  as 
total  strangers  to  her.     That's  all." 

"Oh!"  said  Geoffrey,  eying  her  narrowly. 
"That's  all?" 

"Ask  my  uncle,"  returned  Blanche,  "if  j^ou 
don't  believe  that  I  have  reported  her  correctly. 
She  gave  us  all  our  dismissal,  in  her  most  mag- 


MAN   AND   WIFE,  325 

nificent  manner,  and  in  those  veiy  words.  Didn't 
she,  Sir  Patrick?" 

It  was  perfectly  true.  Blanche's  readiness  of 
resource  had  met  the  emergency  of  the  moment 
by  describing  something,  in  connection  with  Sir 
Patrick  and  Arnold,  which  had  really  happened. 
Silenced  on  one  side,  in  spite  of  himself,  Geoffrey 
was  at  the  same  moment  pressed  on  the  other, 
for  an  answer  to  his  mother's  message. 

"I  must  take  your  reply  to  Lady  Holchester," 
said  Sir  Patrick.     ' '  What  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

Geoffrey  looked  hard  at  him,  without  making 
any  repty. 

Sir  Patrick  repeated  the  message — with  a 
special  emphasis  on  that  part  of  it  which  related 
to  Anne.  The  emphasis  roused  Geoffrey's  tem- 
per. 

"You  and  my  mother  have  made  that  mes- 
sage up  between  you,  to  try  me!"  he  burst  out. 
"D — n  all  underhand  work,  is  what  J  say!" 

"I  am  waiting  for  your  answer,"  persisted  Sir 
Patrick,  steadily  ignoring  the  words  which  had 
just  been  addressed  to  him. 

Geoffrey  glanced  at  Anne,  and  suddenly  re- 
covered himself. 

"My  love  to  my  mother,"  he  said.  "I'll  go 
to  her  to-morrow— and  take  my  wife  with  me, 
with  the  greatest  pleasure.  Do  you  hear  that? 
With  the  greatest  pleasure."  He  stopped  to  ob- 
serve the  effect  of  his  reply.  Sir  Patrick  waited 
impenetrably  to  hear  more— if  he  had  more  to 
say.  "I'm  sorry  I  lost  my  temper  jusfc  now," 
he  resumed.     "I    am    badly   treated— I'm  dis- 


32G  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS, 

trusted  without  a  cause.  I  ask  you  to  bear  wit- 
ness, ' '  he  added,  his  voice  getting  louder  again, 
while  his  eyes  naoved  uneasily  backward  and 
forward  between  Sir  Patrick  and  Anne,  "that  I 
treat  my  wife  as  becomes  a  lady.  Her  friend 
calls  on  her — and  she's  free  to  receive  her  friend. 
My  mother  wants  to  see  her — and  I  promise  to 
take  her  to  my  mother's.  At  two  o'clock  to- 
morrow. Where  am  I  to  blame?  You  stand 
there  looking  at  me  and  saying  nothing.  Where 
am  I  to  blame?" 

"If  a  man's  own  conscience  justifies  him,  Mr. 
Delamayn,"  said  Sir  Patrick,  "the  opinions  of 
others  are  of  very  little  importance.  My  errand 
here  is  performed." 

As  he  turned  to  bid  Anne  farewell,  the  un- 
easiness that  he  felt  at  leaving  her  forced  its  way 
to  view.  The  color  faded  out  of  his  face.  His 
hand  trembled  as  it  closed  tenderly  and  firmly 
on  hers.  "I  shall  see  you  to-morrow  at  Hol- 
chester  House, ' '  he  said ;  giving  his  arm  while 
he  spoke  to  Blanche.  He  took  leave  of  Geoffrey 
without  looking  at  him  again,  and  without  see- 
ing his  offered  hand.  In  another  minute  they 
were  gone. 

Anne  waited  on  the  lower  floor  of  the  cottage, 
while  Geoffrey  closed  and  locked  the  gate.  She 
had  no  wish  to  appear  to  avoid  him,  after  the 
answer  that  he  had  sent  to  his  mother's  mes- 
sage. He  returned  slowly  half-way  across  the 
front  garden,  looked  toward  the  passage  in 
which  she  was  standing,  passed  before  the  door, 
and  disappeared  round  the  corner  of  the  cottage 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  327 

on  his  way  to  the  back  garden.  The  inference 
was  not  to  be  mistaken.  It  was  Geoffrey  who 
was  avoiding  her.  Had  he  lied  to  Sir  Patrick? 
When  the  next  day  came,  would  he  find  reasons 
of  his  own  for  refusing  to  take  her  to  Holchester 
House? 

She  went  upstairs.  At  the  same  moment  Hes- 
ter Dethridge  opened  her  bedroom  door  to  come 
out.  Observing  Anne,  she  closed  it  again ;  and 
remained  invisible  in  her  room.  Once  more  the 
inference  was  not  to  be  mistaken.  Hester  Deth- 
ridge, also,  had  her  reasons  for  avoiding  Anne. 

What  did  it  mean?  What  object  could  there 
be  in  common  between  Hester  and  Geoffrey? 

There  was  no  fathoming  the  meaning  of  it. 
Anne's  thoughts  reverted  to  the  communication 
which  had  been  secretly  made  to  her  by  Blanche. 
It  was  not  in  womanhood  to  be  insensible  to  such 
devotion  as  Sir  Patrick's  conduct  implied.  Ter- 
rible as  her  position  had  become  in  its  ever- 
growing uncertainty,  in  its  never-ending  sus- 
pense, the  oppression  of  it  yielded  for  the  mo- 
ment to  the  glow  of  pride  and  gratitude  which 
warmed  her  heart,  as  she  thought  of  the  sacri- 
fices that  had  been  made,  of  the  perils  that  were 
still  to  be  encountered,  solely  for  her  sake.  To 
shorten  the  period  of  suspense  seemed  to  be  a 
duty  which  she  owed  to  Sir  Patrick,  as  well  as 
to  herself.  Why,  in  her  situation,  wait  for  what 
the  next  day  might  bring  forth?  If  the  oppor- 
tunity offered,  she  determined  to  put  the  signal 
in  the  window  that  night. 

Toward  evening  she  heard  once  more  the  noises 


328  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

which  appeared  to  indicate  that  repairs  of  some 
sort  were  going  on  in  the  house.  This  time  the 
sounds  were  fainter ;  and  they  came,  as  she  fan- 
cied, not  from  the  spare  room,  as  before,  but 
from  Geoffrey's  room,  next  to  it. 

The  dinner  was  later  than  usual  that  day. 
Hester  Dethridge  did  not  appear  with  the  tray 
till  dusk.  Anne  spoke  to  her,  and  received  a 
mute  sign  in  answer.  Determined  to  see  the 
woman's  face  plainly,  she  put  a  question  which 
required  a  written  answer  on  the  slate ;  and,  tell- 
ing Hester  to  wait,  went  to  the  mantel-piece  to 
light  her  candle.  When  she  turned  round  with 
the  lighted  candle  in  her  hand,  Hester  was  gone. 

Night  came.  She  rang  her  bell  to  have  the 
tray  taken  away.  The  fall  of  a  strange  footstep 
startled  her  outside  her  door.  She  called  out, 
"Who's  there?"  The  voice  of  the  lad  whom 
Geoffrey  employed  to  go  on  errands  for  him  an- 
swered her. 

"What  do  you  want  here?"  she  asked,  through 
the  door. 

"Mr.  Delamayn  sent  me  up,  ma'am.  He 
wishes  to  speak  to  you  directly. ' ' 

Anne  found  Geoffre}"  in  the  dining-room.  His 
object  in  wishing  to  speak  to  her  was,  on  the 
surface  of  it,  trivial  enough.  He  wanted  to 
know  how  she  would  prefer  going  to  Holchester 
House  on  the  next  day — by  the  railway,  or  in  a 
carriage.  "If  you  prefer  driving,"  he  said,  "the 
boy  has  come  here  for  orders;  and  he  can  tell 
them  to  send  a  carriage  from  the  livery-stables 
as  he  goes  home. " 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  329 

"The  railway  will  do  perfectly  well  forme," 
Anne  replied. 

Instead  of  accepting  the  answer,  and  dropping 
the  subject,  he  asked  her  to  reconsider  her  decis- 
ion. There  was  an  absent,  uneasy  expression  in 
his  eye  as  he  begged  her  not  to  consult  economy 
at  the  expense  of  her  own  comfort.  He  appeared 
to  have  some  reason  of  his  own  for  preventing 
her  from  leaving  the  room.  "Sit  down  a  min- 
ute, and  think  before  you  decide, ' '  he  said.  Hav- 
ing forced  her  to  take  a  chair,  he  put  his  head 
outside  the  door,  and  directed  the  lad  to  go  up- 
stairs and  see  if  he  had  left  his  pipe  in  his  bed- 
room. "I  want  you  to  go  in  comfort,  as  a  lady 
should, ' '  he  repeated,  with  the  uneasy  look  more 
marked  than  ever.  Before  Anne  could  reply,  the 
lad's  voice  reached  them  from  the  bedroom  floor, 
raised  in  shrill  alarm,  and  screaming  "Fire!" 

Geoffrey  ran  upstairs.  Anne  followed  him. 
The  lad  met  them  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  He 
pointed  to  the  open  door  of  Anne's  room.  She 
was  absolutely  certain  of  ha,ving  left  her  lighted 
candle,  when  she  went  down  to  Geoffrey,  at  a 
safe  distance  from  the  bed-curtains.  The  bed- 
curtains,  nevertheless,  were  in  a  blaze  of  fire. 

There  was  a  supply  of  water  to  the  cottage  on 
the  upper  floor.  The  bedroom  jugs  and  cans, 
usually  in  their  places  at  an  earlier  hour,  were 
standing  that  night  at  the  cistern.  An  empty 
pail  was  left  near  them.  Directing  the  lad  to 
bring  him  water  from  these  resources,  Geoffrey 
tore  down  the  curtains  in  a  flaming  heap,  partly 
on  the  bed  and  partly  on  the  sofa  near  it.  Using 


330  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

the  can  and  the  pail  alternately,  as  the  boy 
brought  them,  he  drenched  the  bed  and  the  sofa. 
It  was  all  over  in  little  more  than  a  minute.  The 
cottage  was.  saved,  but  the  bed-furniture  was 
destroyed ;  and  the  room,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
was  rendered  uninhabitable,  for  that  night  at 
least,  and  probably  for  more  nights  to  come. 

Geoffrey  set  down  the  empty  pail,  and,  turning 
to  Anne,  pointed  across  the  passage. 

"You  won't  be  much  inconvenienced  by  this," 
he  said.  "You  have  only  to  shift  your  quarters 
to  the  spare  room." 

With  the  assistance  of  the  lad,  he  moved 
Anne's  boxes,  and  the  chest  of  drawers,  which 
had  escaped  damage,  into  the  opposite  room. 
This  done,  he  cautioned  her  to  be  careful  with 
her  candles  for  the  future — and  went  downstairs, 
without  waiting  to  hear  what  she  said  in  reply. 
The  lad  followed  him,  and  was  dismissed  for  the 
night. 

Even  in  the  confusion  which  attended  the  ex- 
tinguishing of  the  fire,  the  conduct  of  Hester 
Dethridge  had  been  remarkable  enough  to  force 
itself  on  the  attention  of  Anne. 

She  had  come  out  from  her  bedroom  when  the 
alarm  was  given ;  had  looked  at  the  flaming  cur- 
tains ;  and  had  drawn  back,  stolidly  submissive, 
into  a  corner  to  wait  the  event.  There  she  had 
stood — to  all  appearance,  utterly  indifferent  to 
the  possible  destruction  of  her  own  cottage.  The 
fire  extinguished,  she  still  waited  impenetrably 
in  her  corner,  while  the  chest  of  drawers  and 
the  boxes  were  being  moved — then  locked  the 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  331 

door,  without  even  a  passing  glance  at  the 
scorched  celling  and  the  burned  bed-furniture^ — 
put  the  key  into  her  pocket — and  went  back  to 
her  room. 

Anne  had  hitherto  not  shared  the  conviction 
felt  by  most  other  persons  who  were  brought 
into  contact  with  Hester  Dethridge,  that  the 
woman's  mind  was  deranged.  After  what  she 
had  just  seen,  however,  the  general  impression 
became  her  impression  too.  She  had  thought  of 
putting  certain  questions  to  Hester,  when  they 
were  left  together,  as  to  the  origin  of  the  fire. 
Reflection  decided  her  on  saying  nothing,  for 
that  night  at  least.  She  crossed  the  passage, 
and  entered  the  spare  room — the  room  which  she 
had  declined  to  occupy  on  her  arrival  at  the  cot- 
tage, and  which  she  was  obliged  to  sleep  in  now. 

She  was  instantly  struck  by  a  change  in  the 
disposition  of  the  furniture  of  the  room. 

The  bed  had  been  moved.  The  head — set, 
when  she  had  last  seen  it,  against  the  side  wall 
of  the  cottage — was  placed  now  against  the  par- 
tition wall  which  separated  the  room  from  Geof- 
frey's room.  This  new  arrangement  had  evi- 
dently been  effected  with  a  settled  purpose  of 
some  sort.  The  hook  in  the  ceiling  which  sup- 
ported the  curtains  (the  bed,  unlike  the  bed  in 
the  other  room,  having  no  canopy  attached  to  it) 
had  been  moved  so  as  to  adapt  itself  to  the  change 
that  had  been  made.  The  chairs  and  the  wash- 
hand-stand,  formerly  placed  against  the  partition 
wall,  were  now,  as  a  matter  of  necessity,  shifted 
over  to  the  vacant  space  against  the  side  wall  of 


332  WORKS    OF    WILKIE   COLLINS. 

the  cottage.  For  the  rest,  no  other  alteration 
was  visible  in  any  part  of  the  room. 

In  Anne's  situation  any  event  not  immediately 
intelligible  on  the  face  of  it  was  an  event  to  be 
distrusted.  Was  there  a  motive  for  the  change 
in  the  position  of  the  bed?  And  was  it,  by  any 
chance,  a  motive  in  which  she  was  concerned? 

The  doubt  had  barely  occurred  to  her,  before 
a  startling  suspicion  succeeded  it.  Was  there 
some  secret  purpose  to  be  answered  by  making 
her  sleep  in  the  spare  room?  Did  the  question 
which  the  servant  had  heard  Geoffrey  put  to 
Hester  on  the  previous  night  refer  to  this?  Had 
the  fire  which  had  so  unaccountably  caught  the 
curtains  in  her  own  room  been,  by  any  possibil- 
ity, a  fire  purposely  kindled,  to  force  her  out? 

She  dropped  into  the  nearest  chair,  faint  with 
horror,  as  those  three  questions  forced  them- 
selves in  rapid  succession  on  her  mind. 

After  waiting  a  little,  she  recovered  self-pos- 
session enough  to  recognize  the  first  plain  neces- 
sity of  putting  her  suspicions  to  the  test.  It  was 
possible  that  her  excited  fancy  had  filled  her  with 
a  purely  visionary  alarm.  For  all  she  knew  to 
the  contrary,  there  might  be  some  undeniably 
sufficient  reason  for  changing  the  position  of  the 
bed.  She  went  out,  and  knocked  at  the  door  of 
Hester  Dethridge's  room. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said. 

Hester  came  out.  Anne  pointed  to  the  spare 
room,  and  led  the  way  to  it.    Hester  followed  her. 

"Why  have  you  changed  the  place  of  the  bed, " 
she  asked.  ' '  from  the  wall  there  to  the  wall  here  ?  " 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  333 

Stolidly  submissive  to  the  question,  as  she  had 
been  stolidly  submissive  to  the  fire,  Hester  Deth- 
ridge  wrote  her  reply.  On  all  other  occasions 
she  was  accustomed  to  look  the  persons  to  whom 
she  offered  her  slate  steadily  in  the  face.  Now, 
for  the  first  time,  she  handed  it  to  Anne  with  her 
eyes  on  the  floor.  The  one  line  written  con- 
tained no  direct  answer :  the  words  were  these : 

"I  have  meant  to  move  it  for  some  time 
past. ' ' 

"I  ask  you  why  3^ou  have  moved  it." 

She  wrote  these  four  words  on  the  slate:  "The 
wall  is  damp." 

Anne  looked  at  the  wall.  There  was  no  sign 
of  damp  on  the  paper.  She  passed  her  hand  over 
it.     Feel  where  she  might,  the  wall  was  drj". 

"That  is  not  your  reason,"  she  said. 

Hester  stood  immovable. 

"There  is  no  dampness  in  the  wall." 

Hester  pointed  persistently  with  her  pencil  to 
the  four  words,  still  without  looking  up— waited 
a  moment  for  Anne  to  read  them  again — and 
left  the  room. 

It  was  plainly  useless  to  call  her  back.  Anne's 
first  impulse  when  she  was  alone  again  was  to 
secure  the  door.  She  not  only  locked  it,  but 
bolted  it  at  top  and  bottom.  The  mortise  of  the 
lock  and  the  staples  of  the  bolts,  when  she  tried 
them,  were  firm.  The  lurking  treachery — where- 
ever  else  it  might  be — was  not  in  the  fastenings 
of  the  door. 

She  looked  all  round  the  room ;  examining  the 
fireplace,  the  window  and  its  shutters,  the  inte- 


334  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

rior  of  the  wardrobe,  the  hidden  space  under  the 
bed.  Nothing  was  anywhere  to  be  discovered 
which  could  justify  the  most  timid  person  hving 
in  feeling  suspicion  or  alarm. 

Appearances,  fair  as  they  were,  failed  to  con- 
vince her.  The  presentiment  of  some  hidden 
treachery,  steadily  getting  nearer  and  nearer  to 
her  in  the  dark,  had  rooted  itself  firmly  in  her 
mind.  She  sat  down  and  tried  to  trace  her  way 
back  to  the  clew  through  the  earlier  events  of 
the  day. 

The  effort  was  fruitless:  nothing  definite, 
nothing  tangible,  rewarded  it.  Worse  still,  a 
new  doubt  grew  out  of  it — a  doubt  whether  the 
motive  which  Sir  Patrick  had  avowed  (through 
Blanche)  was  the  motive  for  helping  her  which 
was  really  in  his  mind. 

Did  he  sincerely  believe  Geoffrey's  conduct  to 
be  animated  by  no  worse  object  than  a  mercenary 
object?  and  was  his  only  purpose,  in  planning  to 
remove  her  out  of  her  husband's  reach,  to  force 
Geoffrey's  consent  to  their  separation  on  the 
terms  which  Julius  had  proposed?  Was  this 
really  the  sole  end  that  he  had  in  view?  or  was 
he  secretl}^  convinced  (knowing  Anne's  position 
as  he  knew  it)  that  she  was  in  personal  danger 
at  the  cottage?  and  had  he  considerately  kept 
that  conviction  concealed,  in  the  fear  that  he 
might  otherwise  encourage  her  to  feel  alarmed 
about  herself?  She  looked  round  the  strange 
room  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  and  she  felt  that 
the  latter  interpretation  was  the  likeliest  inter- 
pretation of  the  two. 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  335 

The  sounds-  caused  by  the  closing  of  the  doors 
and  windows  reached  her  from  the  ground- floor. 
"What  was  to  be  done? 

It  was  impossible  to  show  the  signal  which 
had  been  agreed  on  to  Sir  Patrick  and  Arnold. 
The  window  in  which  they  expected  to  see  it  was 
the  window  of  the  room  in  which  the  fire  had 
broken  out — the  room  which  Hester  Dethridge 
had  locked  up  for  the  night. 

It  was  equally  hopeless  to  wait  until  the  po- 
liceman passed  on  his  beat,  and  to  call  for  help. 
Even  if  she  could  prevail  upon  herself  to  make 
that  open  acknowledgment  of  distrust  under  her 
husband's  roof,  and  even  if  help  was  near,  what 
valid  reason  could  she  give  for  raising  an  alarm? 
There  was  not  the  shadow  of  a  reason  to  justify 
any  one  in  placing  her  under  the  protection  of 
the  law. 

As  a  last  resource,  impelled  by  her  blind  dis- 
trust of  the  change  in  the  position  of  the  bed,  she 
attempted  to  move  it.  The  utmost  exertion  of 
her  strength  did  not  suffice  to  stir  the  heavy  piece 
of  furniture  out  of  its  place  by  so  much  as  a  hair- 
breadth. 

There  was  no  alternative  but  to  trust  to  the 
security  of  the  locked  and  bolted  door,  and  to 
keep  watch  through  the  night — certain  that  Sir 
Patrick  and  Arnold  were,  on  their  part,  also 
keeping  watch  in  the  near  neighborhood  of  the 
cottage.  She  took  out  her  work  and  her  books; 
and  returned  to  her  chair,  placing  it  near  the 
table,  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

The  last  noises  which  told  of  life  and  move- 


336  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS, 

ment  about  her  died  away.    The  breathless  still- 
ness of  the  night  closed  round  her. 


CHAPTER  THE  FIFTY-SIXTH. 

THE   MEANS. 

The  new  day  dawned;  the  sun  rose;  the 
household  was  astir  again.  Inside  the  spare 
room,  and  outside  the  spare  room,  nothing  had 
happened. 

At  the  hour  appointed  for  leaving  the  cottage 
to  pay  the  promised  visit  to  Holchester  House, 
Hester  Dethridge  and  Geoffrey  were  alone  to- 
gether in  the  bedroom  in  which  Anne  had  passed 
the  night. 

"She's  dressed,  and  waiting  for  me  in  the 
front  garden,"  said  Geoffrey.  "You  wanted  to 
see  me  here  alone.     What  is  it?" 

Hester  pointed  to  the  bed. 

"You  want  it  moved  from  the  wall?" 

Hester  nodded  her  head. 

They  moved  the  bed  some  feet  away  from  the 
partition  wall.  After  a  momentary  pause, 
Geoffrey  spoke  again. 

"It  must  be  done  to-night, "  he  said.  "Her 
friends  may  interfere ;  the  girl  may  come  back. 
It  must  be  done  to-night. ' ' 

Hester  bowed  her  head  slowly. 

"How  long  do  you  want  to  be  left  by  yourself 
in  the  house?" 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  337 

She  held  up  three  of  her  fingers. 

"Does  that  mean  three  hours?" 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"Will  it  be  done  in  that  time?" 

She  made  the  affirmative  sign  once  more. 

Thus  far  she  had  never  lifted  her  eyes  to  his. 
In  her  manner  of  listening  to  him  when  he  spoke, 
in  the  slightest  movement  that  she  made  when 
necessity  required  it,  the  same  lifeless  submis- 
sion to  him,  the  same  mute  horror  of  him,  was 
expressed.  He  had,  thus  far,  silently  resented 
this,  on  his  side.  On  the  point  of  leaving  the 
room  the  restraint  which  he  had  laid  on  himself 
gave  way.  For  the  first  time  he  resented  it  in 
words. 

"Why  the  devil  can't  you  look  at  me?"  he 
asked. 

She  let  the  question  pass,  without  a  sign  to 
show  that  she  had  heard  him.  He  angrily  re- 
peated it.  She  wrote  on  her  slate,  and  held  it 
out  to  him— still  without  raising  her  eyes  to  his 
face. 

"You  know  you  can  speak,"  he  said.  "You 
know  I  have  found  you  out.  What's  the  use  of 
playing  the  fool  with  me  .?" 

She  persisted  in  holding  the  slate  before  him. 
He  read  these  words : 

"I  am  dumb  to  you,  and  blind  to  you.  Let 
me  be." 

"Let  you  be!"  he  repeated.  "It's  a  little  late 
in  the  day  to  be  scrupulous,  after  what  you  have 
done.  Do  you  want  your  Confession  back,  or 
not?" 


338  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

As  the  reference  to  the  Confession  passed  his 
lips,  she  raised  her  head.  A  faint  tinge  of  color 
showed  itself  on  her  livid  cheeks ;  a  momentary 
spasm  of  pain  stirred  her  death-like  face.  The 
one  last  interest  left  in  the  woman's  life  was  the 
interest  of  recovering  the  manuscript  which  had 
been  taken  from  her.  To  that  appeal  the  stunned 
intelligence  still  faintly  answered  —  and  to  no 
other. 

"Remember  the  bargain  on  your  side,"  Geof- 
frey went  on,  "and  I'll  remember  the  bargain  on 
mine.  This  is  how  it  stands,  you  know.  I  have 
read  your  Confession ;  and  I  find  one  thing  want- 
ing. You  don't  tell  how  it  was  done.  I  know 
you  smothered  him ;  but  I  don't  know  how.  I 
want  to  know.  You're  dumb;  and  you  can't  tell 
me.  You  must  do  to  the  wall  here  what  you  did 
in  the  other  house.  You  run  no  risks.  There 
isn't  a  soul  to  see  you.  You  have  got  the  place 
to  yourself.  When  I  come  back  let  me  find  this 
wall  like  the  other  wall — at  that  small  hour  of 
the  morning,  you  know,  when  you  were  waiting, 
with  the  towel  in  your  hand,  for  the  first  stroke 
of  the  clock.  Let  me  find  that,  and  to-morrow 
you  shall  have  your  Confession  back  again." 

As  the  reference  to  the  Confession  passed  his 
lips  for  the  second  time,  the  sinking  energy  in 
the  woman  leaped  up  in  her  once  more.  She 
snatched  her  slate  from  her  side,  and,  writing  on 
it  rapidly,  held  it,  with  both  hands,  close  under 
his  eyes.     He  read  these  words : 

"I  won't  wait.     I  must  have  it  to-night." 

"Do  you  think  I  keep  your  Confession  about 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  339 

me?"  said  Geoffrey.  "I  haven't  even  got  it  in 
the  house." 

She  staggered  back,  and  looked  up  for  the 
first  time. 

"Don't  alarm  yourself,"  he  went  on.  "It's 
sealed  up  with  my  seal ;  and  it's  safe  in  my  bank- 
ers' keeping.  I  posted  it  to  them  myself.  You 
don't  stick  at  a  trifle,  Mrs.  Dethridge.  If  I  had 
kept  it  locked  up  in  the  house,  you  might  have 
forced  the  lock  when  my  back  was  turned.  If  I 
had  kept  it  about  me — I  might  have  had  that 
towel  over  my  face,  in  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning !  The  bankers  will  give  you  back  your 
Confession — just  as  they  have  received  it  from 
me — on  receipt  of  an  order  in  my  handwriting. 
Do  what  I  have  told  you,  and  you  shall  have  the 
order  to-night." 

She  passed  her  apron  over  her  face,  and  drew 
a  long  breath  of  relief.  Geoffrey  turned  to  the 
door. 

"I  will  be  back  at  six  this  evening,"  he  said. 
"Shall  I  find  it  done?" 

She  bowed  her  head.  His  first  condition  ac- 
cepted, he  proceeded  to  the  second, 

"When  the  opportunity  offers,"  he  resumed, 
"I  shall  go  up  to  my  room.  I  shall  ring  the 
dining-room  bell  first.  You  will  go  up  before 
me  when  you  hear  that — and  you  will  show  me 
how  you  did  it  in  the  empty  house?" 

She  made  the  affirmative  sign  once  more. 

At  the  same  moment  the  door  in  the  passage 
below  was  opened  and  closed  again.  Geoffrey 
instantly  went  downstairs.     It  was  possible  that 


340  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Anne  might  have  forgotten  something;  and  it 
was  necessary  to  prevent  her  from  returning  to 
her  own  room. 

They  met  in  the  passage. 

"Tired  of  waiting  in  the  garden?"  he  asked, 
abruptly. 

She  pointed  to  the  dining-room. 

"The  postman  has  just  given  me  a  letter  for 
you,  through  the  grating  in  the  gate,"  she  an- 
swered.    "I  have  put  it  on  the  table  in  there." 

He  went  in.  The  handwriting  on  the  address 
of  the  letter  was  the  handwriting  of  Mrs.  Glen- 
arm.  He  put  it  unread  into  his  pocket,  and  went 
back  to  Anne. 

"Step  out!"  he  said.  "We  shall  lose  the 
train." 

They  started  for  their  visit  to  Holchester  House. 


CHAPTER  THE   FIFTY-SEVENTH. 

THE   END. 

At  a  few  minutes  before  six  o'clock  that  even- 
ing, Lord  Holchester's  carriage  brought  Geoffrey 
and  Anne  back  to  the  cottage. 

Geoffrey  prevented  the  servant  from  ringing 
at  the  gate.  He  had  taken  the  key  with  him, 
when  he  left  home  earlier  in  the  day.  Having 
admitted  Anne,  and  having  closed  the  gate 
again,  he  went  on  before  her  to  the  kitchen  win- 
dow, and  called  to  Hester  Dethridge. 

"Take  some  cold  water  into  the  drawing-room, 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  34X 

and  fill  the  vase  on  the  chimney-piece, ' '  he  said. 
"The  sooner  you  put  those  llovvers  into  water," 
he  added,  turning  to  his  wife,  "the  longer  they 
will  last." 

He  pointed,  as  he  spoke,  to  a  nosegay  in 
Anne's  hand,  which  Julius  had  gathered  for 
her  from  the  conservatory  at  Holchester  House. 
Leaving  her  to  arrange  the  flowers  in  the  vase, 
he  went  upstairs.  After  waiting  for  a  moment, 
he  was  joined  by  Hester  Dethridge. 

"Done?"  he  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

Hester  made  the  affirmative  sign.  Geoffrey 
took  off  his  boots  and  led  the  way  into  the  spare 
room.  They  noiselessly  moved  the  bed  back  to 
its  place  against  the  partition  wall,  and  left  the 
room  again.  When  Anne  entered  it,  some  min- 
utes afterward,  not  the  slightest  change  of  any 
kind  was  visible  since  she  had  last  seen  it  in  the 
middle  of  the  day. 

She  removed  her  bonnet  and  mantle,  and  sat 
down  to  rest. 

The  whole  course  of  events,  since  the  previous 
night,  had  tended  one  way,  and  had  exerted  the 
same  delusive  influence  over  her  mind.  It  was 
impossible  for  her  any  longer  to  resist  the  con- 
viction that  she  had  distrusted  appearances  with- 
out the  slightest  reason,  and  that  she  had  per- 
mitted purely  visionary  suspicions  to  fill  her  with 
purely  causeless  alarm.  In  the  firm  belief  that 
she  was  in  danger,  she  had  watched  through  the 
night — and  nothing  had  happened.  In  the  con- 
fident anticipation  that  Geoffrey  had  promised 
what  he  was  resolved  not  to  perform,  she  had 


342  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS 

waited  to  see  what  excuse  he  would  find  for 
keeping  her  at  the  cottage.  And,  when  the  time 
came  for  the  visit,  she  found  him  ready  to  fulfill 
the  engagement  which  he  had  made.  At  Hol- 
chester  House,  not  the  slightest  interference  had 
been  attempted  with  her  perfect  liberty  of  action 
and  speech.  Resolved  to  inform  Sir  Patrick  that 
she  had  changed  her  room,  she  had  described  the 
alarm  of  fire  and  the  events  which  had  succeeded 
it,  in  the  fullest  detail — and  had  not  been  once 
checked  by  Geoffrey  from  beginning  to  end.  She 
had  spoken  in  confidence  to  Blanche,  and  had 
never  been  interrupted.  Walking  round  the 
conservatory,  she  had  dropped  behind  the  others 
with  perfect  impunity,  to  say  a  grateful  word  to 
Sir  Patrick,  and  to  ask  if  the  interpretation  that 
he  placed  on  Geoffrey's  conduct  was  really  the 
interpretation  which  had  been  hinted  at  by 
Blanche.  They  had  talked  together  for  ten  min- 
utes or  more.  Sir  Patrick  had  assured  her  that 
Blanche  had  correctly  represented  his  opinion. 
He  had  declared  his  conviction  that  the  rash 
way  was,  in  her  case,  the  right  way ;  and  that 
she  would  do  well  (with  his  assistaoce)  to  take 
the  initiative,  in  the  matter  of  the  separation,  on 
herself.  "As  long  as  he  can  keep  you  under  the 
same  roof  with  him" — Sir  Patrick  had  said — "so 
long  he  will  speculate  on  our  a,nxiety  to  release 
you  from  the  oppression  of  living  with  him ;  and 
so  long  he  will  hold  out  with  his  brother  (in  the 
character  of  a  penitent  husband)  for  higher  terms. 
Put  the  signal  in  the  window,  and  try  the  exper- 
iment to-night.     Once  find  your  way  to  the  gar- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  S^ 

den  door,  and  I  answer  for  keeping  you  safely 
out  of  his  reach  until  he  has  submitted  to  the 
separation,  and  has  signed  the  deed."  In  those 
words,  he  had  urged  Anne  to  prompt  action.  He 
had  received,  in  return,  her  promise  to  be  guided 
by  his  advice.  She  had  gone  back  to  the  draw- 
ing-room ;  and  Geoffrey  had  made  no  remark  on 
her  absence.  She  had  returned  to  Fulham, 
alone  with  him  in  his  brother's  carriage;  and 
he  had  asked  no  questions.  What  was  it  natural, 
with  her  means  of  judging,  to  infer  from  all  this? 
Could  she  see  into  Sir  Patrick's  mind,  and  detect 
that  he  was  deliberately  concealing  his  own  con- 
viction, in  the  fear  that  he  might  paralyze  her 
energies  if  he  acknowledged  the  alarm  for  her 
that  he  really  felt?  No.  She  could  only  accept 
the  false  appearances  that  surrounded  her  in  the 
disguise  of  truth.  She  could  only  adopt,  in  good 
faith,  Sir  Patrick's  assumed  point  of  view,  and 
believe,  on  the  evidence  of  her  own  observation, 
that  Sir  Patrick  was  right. 

Toward  dusk,  Anne  began  to  feel  the  exhaus- 
tion which  was  the  necessary  result  of  a  night 
passed  without  sleep.  She  rang  her  bell,  and 
asked  for  some  tea. 

Hester  Dethridge  answered  the  bell.  Instead 
of  making  the  usual  sign,  she  stood  considering 
— and  then  wrote  on  her  slate.  These  were  the 
words:  "I  have  all  the  work  to  do,  now  the  girl 
has  gone.  If  you  would  have  your  tea  in  the 
drawing-room,  you  would  save  me  another  jour- 
ney upstairs." 
Yol.  4  12— 


^44  WORKS   OF   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

Anne  at  once  engaged  to  comply  with  the  re- 
quest. 

"Are  you  illV"  she  asked;  noticing,  faint  as 
the  light  now  was,  something  strangely  altered 
in  Hester's  manner. 

Without  looking  up,  Hester  shook  her  head. 

"Has  anything  happened  to  vex  you?" 

The  negative  sign  was  repeated. 

"Have  I  offended  you?" 

She  suddenly  advanced  a  step;  suddenly 
looked  at  Anne;  checked  herself  with  a  dull 
moan,  like  a  moan  of  pain;  and  hurried  out 
of  the  room. 

Concluding  that  she  had  inadvertently  said  or 
done  something  to  offend  Hester  Dethridge, 
Anne  determined  to  return  to  the  subject  at  the 
first  favorable  opportunity.  In  the  meantime 
she  descended  to  the  ground-floor.  The  dining- 
room  door,  standing  wide  open,  showed  her 
Geoffre}^  sitting  at  the  table,  writing  a  letter, 
with  the  fatal  brandj^'-bottle  at  his  side. 

After  what  Mr.  Speedwell  had  told  her,  it  was 
her  duty  to  interfere.  She  performed  her  duty 
without  an  instant's  hesitation. 

"Pardon  me  for  interrupting  you,"  she  said. 
"I  think  you  have  forgotten  what  Mr.  Speedwell 
told  you  about  that. ' ' 

She  pointed  to  the  bottle.  Geoffrey  looked 
at  it;  looked  down  again  at  his  letter,  and  im- 
patiently shook  his  head.  She  made  a  second 
attempt  at  remonstrance — again  without  effect. 
He  only  said,  "All  right!"  in  lower  tones  than 
were  oustomarv  with  him,  and  continued  his  oc- 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  345 

cupation.     It  was  useless  to  court  a  third  repulse. 
Anne  went  into  the  drawing-room. 

The  letter  on  which  he  was  engaged  was  an 
answer  to  Mrs.  Glenarm,  who  had  written  to  tell 
him  that  she  was  leaving  town.  He  had  reached 
his  two  concluding  sentences  when  Anne  spoke 
to  him.  They  ran  as  follows:  "I  may  have  news 
to  bring  you,  before  long,  which  you  don't  look 
for.  Stay  where  you  are  through  to-morrow, 
and  wait  to  hear  from  me." 

After  sealing  the  envelope,  he  emptied  his 
glass  of  brandy- and- water,  and  waited,  looking 
through  the  open  door.  When  Hester  Dethridge 
crossed  the  passage  with  the  tea-tray,  and  en- 
tered the  drawing-room,  he  gave  the  sign  which 
had  been  agreed  on.  He  rang  his  bell.  Hester 
came  out  again,  closing  the  drawing-room  door 
behind  her. 

"Is  she  safe  at  her  tea?"  he  asked,  removing 
his  heavy  boots,  and  putting  on  the  slippers 
which  were  placed  ready  for  him. 

Hester  bowed  her  head. 

He  pointed  up  the  stairs.  "You  go  first,"  he 
whispered.     "No  nonsense!  and  no  noise!" 

She  ascended  the  stairs.  He  followed  slowly. 
Although  he  had  only  drank  one  glass  of  brandy- 
and-water,  his  step  was  uncertain  already,  "With 
one  hand  on  the  wall,  and  one  hand  on  the  ban- 
ister, he  made  his  way  to  the  top ;  stopped,  and 
listened  for  a  moment ;  then  joined  Hester  in  his 
own  room,  and  softly  locked  the  door. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

She  was  standing  motionless  in  the  middle  of 


346  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

the  room — not  like  a  living  woman — like  a  ma- 
chine waiting  to  be  set  in  movement.  Finding 
it  useless  to  speak  to  her,  he  touched  her  (with  a 
strange  sensation  of  shrinking  in  him  as  he  did 
it),  and  pointed  to  the  partition  wall. 

The  touch  roused  her.  With  slow  step  and 
vacant  face — moving  as  if  she  was  walking  in 
her  sleep — she  led  the  way  to  the  papered  wall; 
knelt  down  at  the  skirting-board;  and,  taking 
out  two  small  sharp  nails,  lifted  up  a  long  strip 
of  the  paper  which  had  been  detached  from  the 
plaster  beneath.  Mounting  on  a  chair,  she  turned 
back  the  strip  and  pinned  it  up,  out  of  the  way, 
using  the  two  nails,  which  she  had  kept  ready 
in  her  hand. 

By  the  last  dim  rays  of  twilight,  Geoffrey 
looked  at  the  wall. 

A  hollow  space  met  his  view.  At  a  distance 
of  some  three  feet  from  the  floor  the  laths  had 
been  sawn  away,  and  the  plaster  had  been  ripped 
out,  piecemeal,  so  as  to  leave  a  cavity,  sufficient 
in  height  and  width  to  allow  free  power  of  work- 
ing in  any  direction,  to  a  man's  arms.  The  cav- 
ity completely  pierced  the  substance  of  the  wall. 
Nothing  but  the  paper  on  the  other  side  pre- 
vented eye  or  hand  from  penetrating  into  the 
next  room. 

Hester  Dethridge  got  down  from  the  chair, 
and  made  signs  for  a  light. 

Geoffrey  took  a  match  from  the  box.  The 
same  strange  uncertainty  which  had  already 
possessed  his  feet  appeared  now  to  possess  his 
hands.    He  struck  the  match  too  heavily  against 


MAN   AND   WIFE,  347 

the  sand-paper,  and  broke  it.  He  tried  another, 
and  struck  it  too  lightly  to  kindle  the  flame. 
Hester  took  the  box  out  of  his  hands.  Having 
lighted  the  candle,  she  held  it  low,  and  pointed 
to  the  skirting-board. 

Two  little  hooks  were  fixed  into  the  floor,  near 
the  part  of  the  wall  from  which  the  paper  had 
been  removed.  Two  lengths  of  fine  and  strong 
string  were  twisted  once  or  twice  round  the 
hooks.  The  loose  ends  of  the  string,  extending 
to  some  length  beyond  the  twisted  parts,  were 
neatly  coiled  away  against  the  skirting-board. 
The  other  ends,  drawn  tight,  disappeared  in  two 
small  holes  drilled  through  the  wall,  at  a  height 
of  a  foot  from  the  floor. 

After  first  untwisting  the  strings  from  the 
hooks,  Hester  rose,  and  held  the  candle  so  as  to 
light  the  cavity  in  the  wall.  Two  more  pieces  of 
the  fine  string  were  seen  here,  resting  loose  upon 
the  uneven  surface  which  marked  the  lower 
boundary  of  the  hollowed  space.  Lifting  these 
higher  strings,  Hester  lifed  the  loosened  paper 
in  the  next  room — ^the  lower  strings,  which  had 
previously  held  the  strip  firm  and  flat  against 
the  sound  portion  of  the  wall,  working  in  their 
holes,  and  allowing  the  paper  to  move  up  freely. 
As  it  rose  higher  and  higher,  Geoffrey  saw  thin 
strips  of  cotton  wool  lightly  attached,  at  inter- 
vals, to  the  back  of  the  paper,  so  as  effectually 
to  prevent  it  from  making  a  grating  sound 
against  the  wall.  Up  and  up  it  came  slowly, 
till  it  could  be  pulled  through  the  hollow  space, 
and  pinned  up  out  of  the  way,  as  the  strip  pre- 


o48  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

viously  lifted  had  been  pinned  before  it.  Hester 
drew  back,  and  made  way  for  Geoffrey  to  look 
through.  There  was  Anne's  room,  visible  through 
the  wall !  He  softly  parted  the  light  curtains 
that  hung  over  the  bed.  There  was  the  pillow, 
on  which  her  head  would  rest  at  night,  within 
reach  of  his  hands ! 

The  deadly  dexterity  of  it  struck  him  cold. 
His  nerves  gave  way.  He  drew  back  with  a 
start  of  guilty  fear  and  looked  round  the  room. 
A  pocket-flask  of  brandy  lay  on  the  table  at  his 
bedside.  He  snatched  it  up,  and  emptied  it  at 
a  draught — and  felt  like  himself  again. 

He  beckoned  to  Hester  to  approach  him. 

"Before  we  go  any  further,"  he  said,  "there's 
one  thing  I  want  to  know.  How  is  it  all  to  be 
put  right  again?  Suppose  this  room  is  exam- 
ined?    Those  strings  will  show." 

Hester  opened  a  cupboard  and  produced  a  jar. 
She  took  out  the  cork.  There  was  a  mixture 
inside  which  looked  like  glue.  Partly  by  signs, 
and  partly  by  help  of  the  slate,  she  showed  how 
the  mixture  could  be  applied  to  the  back  of  the 
loosened  strip  of  paper  in  the  next  room — how 
the  paper  could  be  glued  to  the  sound  lower  part 
of  the  wall  by  tightening  the  strings — how  the 
strings,  having  served  that  purpose,  could  be 
safely  removed — how  the  same  process  could  be 
followed  in  Geoffrey's  room,  after  the  hollowed 
place  had  been  filled  up  again  with  the  materials 
waiting  in  the  scullery,  or  even  without  filling 
up  the  hollow  place  if  the  time  failed  for  doing 
it.     In  either  case,  the  refastened  paper  would 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  -  H4'.> 

hide   everythinj;^,    and    the   wall   would   tell   no 
tales. 

Geoffrey  was  satisfied.  He  pointed  next  to 
the  towels  in  his  room. 

"Take  one  of  them,"  he  said,  "and  show  me 
how  you  did  it,  with  your  own  hands." 

As  he  said  the  words,  Anne's  voice  reached 
his  ear  from  below,  calling  for ' '  Mrs.  Dethridge. ' ' 

It  was  impossible  to  sa}'^  what  might  happen 
next.  In  another  minute  she  might  go  up  to  her 
room  and  discover  everything.  Geoffrey  pointed 
to  the  wall. 

"Put  it  right  again,"  he  said.  "Instantly!" 
It  was  soon  done.  All  that  was  necessary  was 
to  let  the  two  strips  of  paper  drop  back  into 
their  places — to  fasten  the  strip  to  the  wall  in 
Anne's  room,  by  tightening  the  two  lower  strings 
— and  then  to  replace  the  nails  which  held  the 
loose  strip  on  Geoffrey's  side.  In  a  minute  the 
wall  had  re- assumed  its  customary  aspect. 

They  stole  out,  and  looked  over  the  stairs  into 
the  passage  below.  After  calling  uselessly  for 
the  second  time,  Anne  appeared;  crossed  over  to 
the  kitchen;  and,  returning  again  with  the  kettle 
in  her  hand,  closed  the  drawing-room  door. 

Hester  Dethridge  waited  impenetrably  to  re- 
ceive her  next  directions.  There  were  no  further 
directions  to  give.  The  hideous  dramatic  repre- 
sentation of  the  woman's  crime  for  which  Geof- 
frey had  asked  was  in  no  respect  necessary :  the 
means  were  all  prepared,  and  the  manner  of 
using  them  was  self-evident.  Nothing  but  the 
opportunity,   and  the  resolution  to  profit  by  it. 


350  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

were  wanting  to  lead  the  way  to  the  end.  Geof- 
frey signed  to  Hester  to  go  downstairs. 

"Get  back  into  the  kitchen,"  he  said,  "before 
she  comes  out  again.  I  shall  keep  in  the  garden. 
"When  she  goes  up  into  her  room  for  the  night, 
show  yourself  at  the  back  door — and  I  shall 
know." 

Hester  set  her  foot  on  the  first  stair — stopped 
— turned  round — and  looked  slowly  along  the 
two  walls  of  the  passage,  from  end  to  end — 
shuddered — shook  her  head — and  went  slowly 
on  down  the  stairs, 

"What  were  you  looking  for?"  he  whispered 
after  her. 

She  neither  answered  nor  looked  back — she 
went  her  way  into  the  kitchen. 

He  waited  a  minute,  and  then  followed  her. 

On  his  way  out  to  the  garden,  he  went  into 
the  dining-room.  The  moon  had  risen,  and  the 
window-shutters  were  not  closed.  It  was  easy 
to  find  the  brandy  and  the  jug  of  water  on  the 
table.  He  mixed  the  two,  and  emptied  the  tum- 
bler at  a  draught.  "My  head's  queer,"  he 
whispered  to  himself.  He  passed  his  handker- 
chief over  his  face.  "How  infernally  hot  it  is 
to-night!"  He  made  for  the  door.  It  was  open, 
and  plainly  visible — and  yet  he  failed  to  find  his 
way  to  it.  Twice  he  found  himself  trying  to 
walk  through  the  wall,  on  either  side.  The  third 
time  he  got  out,  and  reached  the  garden.  A 
strange  sensation  possessed  him,  as  he  walked 
round  and  round.  He  had  not  drunk  enough,  or 
nearly  enough,  to  intoxicate  him.      His  mind, 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  361 

in  a  dull  way,  felt  the  same  as  usual;  but  his 
body  was  like  the  body  of  a  drunken  man. 

The  night  advanced;  the  clock  of  Putney 
Church  struck  ten. 

Anne  appeared  again  from  the  drawing-room, 
with  her  bedroom  candle  in  her  hand. 

"Put  out  the  lights,"  she  said  to  Hester,  at 
the  kitchen  door;  "I  am  going  upstairs." 

She  entered  her  room.  The  insupportable 
sense  of  weariness,  after  the  sleepless  night  that 
she  had  passed,  weighed  more  heavily  on  her 
than  ever.  She  locked  the  door,  but  forbore,  on 
this  occasion,  to  fasten  the  bolts.  The  dread  of 
danger  was  no  longer  present  to  her  mind ;  and 
there  was  this  positive  objection  to  using  the 
bolts,  that  the  unfastening  of  them  would  in- 
crease the  difficulty  of  leaving  the  room  noise- 
lessly later  in  the  night.  She  loosened  her  dress, 
and  lifted  her  hair  from  her  temples — and  paced 
to  and  fro  in  the  room  wearily,  thinking.  Geof- 
frey's habits  were  irregular ;  Hester  seldom  went 
to  bed  early.  Two  hours  at  least — more  probably 
three — must  pass,  before  it  would  be  safe  to  com- 
municate with  Sir  Patrick  by  means  of  the  sig- 
nal in  the  window.  Her  strength  was  fast  fail- 
ing her.  If  she  persisted,  for  the  next  three 
hours,  in  denying  herself  the  repose  which  she 
sorely  needed,  the  chances  were  that  her  nerves 
might  fail  her,  through  sheer  exhaustion,  when 
the  time  came  for  facing  the  risk  and  making 
the  effort  to  escape.  Sleep  was  falling  on  her 
even  now,  and  sleep  she  must  have.  She  had 
no  fear  of  failing  to  wake  at  the  needful  time. 


352  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Falling  asleep,  with  a  special  necessity  for  rising 
at  a  given  hour  present  to  her  mind,  Anne  (like 
most  other  sensitively  organized  people)  could 
trust  herself  to  wake  at  that  given  hour,  instinct- 
ively. She  put  her  lighted  candle  in  a  safe  posi- 
tion, and  laid  down  on  the  bed.  In  less  than  five 
minutes  she  was  in  a  deep  sleep. 

*******  * 

The  church  clock  struck  the  quarter  to  eleven. 

Hester  Dethridge  showed  herself  at  the  back 
garden  door.  Geoffrey  crossed  the  lawn,  and 
joined  her.  The  light  of  the  lamp  in  the  passage 
fell  on  his  face.  She  started  back  from  the  sight 
of  it. 

"What's  wrong?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  pointed  through  the 
dining-room  door  to  the  brandy-bottle  on  the  table. 

"I'm  as  sober  as  you  are,  you  fool!"  he  said. 
"Whatever  else  it  is,  it's  not  that." 

Hester  looked  at  him  again.  He  was  right. 
However  unsteady  his  gait  might  be,  his  speech 
was  not  the  speech,  his  eyes  were  not  the  eyes, 
of  a  drunken  man. 

"Is  she  in  her  room  for  the  night?" 

Hester  made  the  affirmative  sign. 

Geoffrey  ascended  the  stairs,  swaying  from 
side  to  side.  He  stopped  at  the  top  and  beck- 
oned to  Hester  to  join  him.  He  went  on  into 
his  room;  and,  signing  to  her  to  follow  him, 
closed  the  door. 

He  looked  at  the  partition  wall — without  ap- 
proaching it.     Hester  waited,  behind  him. 

"Is  she  asleep?"  he  asked. 


MAN    AND    WIFE.  353 

Hester  went  to  the  wall ;  listened  at  it ;  and 
made  the  afifirmative  reply. 

He  sat  down.  "My  head's  queer,"  he  said, 
"Give  me  a  drink  of  water."  He  drank  part  of 
the  water,  and  poured  the  rest  over  his  head. 
Hester  turned  toward  the  door  to  leave  him.  He 
instantly  stopped  her.  "/  can't  unwind  the 
strings.     J  can't  lift  up  the  paper.     Doit." 

She  sternlj^  made  the  sign  of  refusal :  she  res- 
olutely opened  the  door  to  leave  him.  "Do  you 
want  your  Confession  back?"  he  asked.  She 
closed  the  door,  stolidly  submissive  in  an  in- 
stant ;  and  crossed  to  the  partition  wall. 

She  lifted  the  loose  strips  of  paper  on  either 
side  of  the  wall — pointed  through  the  hollowed 
place — and  drew  back  again  to  the  other  end  of 
the  rooin. 

He  rose,  and  walked  unsteadily  from  the  chair 
to  the  foot  of  his  bed.  Holding  by  the  wood- 
work of  the  bed,  he  waited  a  little.  While  he 
waited,  he  became  conscious  of  a  change  in  the 
strange  sensations  that  possessed  him.  A  feeling 
as  of  a  breath  of  cold  air  passed  over  the  right 
side  of  his  head.  He  became  steady  again :  he 
could  calculate  his  distances :  he  could  put  his 
hands  through  the  hollowed  place,  and  draw 
aside  the  light  curtains,  hanging  from  the  hook 
in  the  ceiling  over  the  head  of  her  bed.  He 
could  look  at  his  sleeping  wife. 

She  was  dimlj^  visible,  by  the  light  of  the  can- 
dle placed  at  the  other  end  of  her  room.  The 
worn  and  weary  look  had  disappeared  from  her 
face.     All  that  had  been  purest  and  sweetest  in 


354  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

it,  in  the  by-gone  time,  seemed  to  be  renewed  by 
the  deep  sleep  that  held  her  gently.  She  was 
young  again  in  the  dim  light:  she  was  beautiful 
in  her  calm  repose.  Her  head  lay  back  on  the 
pillow.  Her  upturned  face  was  in  a  position 
which  placed  her  completely  at  the  mercy  of  the 
man  under  whose  eyes  she  was  sleeping — the 
man  who  was  looking  at  her,  with  the  merciless 
resolution  in  him  to  take  her  life. 

After  waiting  a  while,  he  drew  back.  "She's 
more  like  a  child  than  a  woman  to-night,"  he 
muttered  to  himself  under  his  breath.  He 
glanced  across  the  room  at  Hester  Dethridge. 
The  lighted  candle  which  she  had  brought  up- 
stairs with  her  was  burning  near  the  place  where 
she  stood.  "Blow  it  out,"  he  whispered.  She 
never  moved.  He  repeated  the  direction.  There 
she  stood,  deaf  to  him. 

What  was  she  doing?  She  was  looking  fixedly 
into  one  of  the  corners  of  the  room. 

He  turned  his  head  again  toward  the  hollowed 
place  in  the  wall.  He  looked  at  the  peaceful 
face  on  the  pillow  once  more.  He  deliberately 
revived  his  own  vindictive  sense  of  the  debt  that 
he  owed  her.  "But  for  you,  "he  whispered  to 
himself,  "I  should  have  won  the  race:  but  for 
you,  I  should  have  been  friends  with  my  father: 
but  for  you,  I  might  marry  Mrs.  Glenarm."  He 
turned  back  again  into  the  room  while  the  sense 
of  it  was  at  its  fiercest  in  him.  He  looked  round 
and  round  him.  He  took  up  a  towel ;  considered 
for  a  moment;  and  threw  it  down  again. 

A  new  idea  struck  him.     In  two  steps  he  was 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  355 

at  the  side  of  his  bed.  He  seized  on  one  of  the 
pillows,  and  looked  suddenly  at  Hester.  "It's 
not  a  drunken  brute  this  time,"  he  said  to  her. 
"It's  a  woman  who  will  fight  for  her  life.  The 
pillow's  the  safest  of  the  two."  She  never  an- 
swered him,  and  never  looked  toward  him.  He 
made  once  more  for  the  place  in  the  wall,  and 
stopped  midway  between  it  and  his  bed — stopped, 
and  cast  a  backward  glance  over  his  shoulder. 

Hester  Dethridge  was  stirring  at  last. 

With  no  third  person  in  the  room,  she  was 
looking,  and  moving,  nevertheless,  as  if  she  was 
following  a  third  person  along  the  wall,  from  the 
corner.  Her  lips  were  parted  in  horror;  her 
eyes,  opening  wider  and  wider,  stared  rigid  and 
glittering  at  the  empty  wall.  Step  by  step  she 
stole  nearer  and  nearer  to  Geoffrey,  still  follow- 
ing some  visionary  Thing,  which  was  stealing 
nearer  and  nearer  too.  He  asked  himself  what 
it  meant.  Was  the  terror  of  the  deed  that  he 
was  about  to  do  more  than  the  woman's  brain 
could  bear?  Would  she  burst  out  screaming, 
and  wake  his  wife? 

He  hurried  to  the  place  in  the  wall— to  seize 
the  chance,  while  the  chance  was  his. 

He  steadied  his  strong  hold  on  the  pillow. 

He  stooped  to  pass  it  through  the  opening. 

He  poised  it  over  Anne's  sleeping  face. 

At  the  same  moment  he  felt  Hester  Dethridge's 
hand  laid  on  him  from  behind.  The  touch  ran 
through  him,  from  head  to  foot,  like  a  touch  of 
ice.  He  drew  back  with  a  start,  and  faced  her. 
Her  eyes  were  staring  straight  over  his  shoulder 


356  WORKS    OF    WILKIE   COLLINS. 

at  something  behind  him — looking  as  they  had 
looked  in  the  garden  at  Windygates. 

Before  he  could  speak  he  felt  the  flash  of  her 
eyes  in  his  eyes.  For  the  third  time,  she  had 
seen  the  Apparition  behind  him.  The  homicidal 
frenzy  possessed  her.  She  flew  at  his  throat  like 
a  wild  beast.  The  feeble  old  woman  attacked 
the  athlete ! 

He  dropped  the  pillow,  and  lifted  his  terrible 
right  arm  to  brush  her  from  him,  as  he  might 
have  brushed  an  insect  from  him. 

Even  as  he  raised  the  arm  a  frightful  distor- 
tion seized  on  his  face.  As  if  with  an  invisible 
hand,  it  dragged  down  the  brow  and  the  eyelid 
on  the  right ;  it  dragged  down  the  mouth  on  the 
same  side.  His  arm  fell  helpless;  his  whole 
body,  on  the  side  under  the  arm,  gave  way.  He 
dropped  on  the  floor,  like  a  man  shot  dead. 

Hester  Dethridge  pounced  on  his  prostrate 
body — knelt  on  his  broad  breast — and  fastened 
her  ten  fingers  on  his  throat. 

The  shock  of  the  fall  woke  Anne  on  the  in- 
stant. She  started  up — looked  round — and  saw  a 
gap  in  the  wall  at  the  head  of  her  bed,  and  the 
candle-light  glimmering  in  the  next  room.  Panic- 
stricken;  doubting,  for  the  moment,  if  she  were 
in  her  right  mind,  she  drew  back,  waiting — list- 
ening— looking.  She  saw  nothing  but  the  glim- 
mering light  in  the  room ;  she  heard  nothing  but 
a  hoarse  gasping,  as  of  some  person  laboring  for 
breath.  The  sound  ceased.  There  was  an  in- 
terval of  silence.    Then  the  head  of  Hester  Deth- 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  357 

ridge  rose  slowly  into  sight  through  the  gap  in 
the  wall— rose  with  the  ghttering  light  of  mad- 
ness in  the  eyes — and  looked  at  her. 

She  flew  to  the  open  window,  and  screamed 
for  help.  Sir  Patrick's  voice  answered  her, 
from  the  road  in  front  of  the  cottage. 

"Wait  for  me,  for  God's  sake!"  she  cried. 

She  fled  from  the  room,  and  rushed  down  the 
stairs.  In  another  moment  she  had  opened  the 
door,  and  was  out  in  the  front  garden. 

As  she  ran  to  the  gate,  she  heard  the  voice  of 
a  strange  man  on  the  other  side  of  it.  Sir  Pat- 
rick called  to  her  encouragingly.  "The  police- 
man is  with  us,"  he  said.  "He  patrols  the  gar- 
den at  night— he  has  a  key."  As  he  spoke  the 
gate  was  opened  from  the  outside.  She  saw  Sir 
Patrick,  Arnold,  and  the  policeman.  She  stag- 
gered toward  them  as  they  came  in— she  was 
just  able  to  say,  "Upstairs!"  before  her  senses 
failed  her.  Sir  Patrick  saved  her  from  falling. 
He  placed  her  on  the  bench  in  the  garden,  and 
waited  by  her,  while  Arnold  and  the  policeman 
hurried  into  the  cottage. 

"Where  first?"  asked  Arnold. 

"The  room  the  lady  called  from,"  said  the 
policeman. 

They  mounted  the  stairs,  and  entered  Anne's 
room.  The  gap  in  the  wall  was  instantly  ob- 
served by  both  of  them.  They  looked  through  it. 

Geoffrey  Delamayn's  dead  body  lay  on  the 
floor.  Hester  Dethridge  was  kneeling  at  his 
head,  praying. 


358  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 


EPILOGUE, 


A  MORNING  CALL. 


The  newspapers  have  announced  the  return 
of  Lord  and  Lady  Holchester  to  their  residence 
in  London,  after  an  absence  on  the  Continent  of 
more  than  six  months. 

It  is  the  height  of  the  season.  All  day  long, 
within  the  canonical  hours,  the  door  of  Holches- 
ter House  is  perpetually  opening  to  receive  visi- 
tors. The  vast  majority  leave  their  cards,  and 
go  away  again.  Certain  privileged  individuals 
only  get  out  of  their  carriages  and  enter  the 
house. 

Among  these  last,  arriving  at  an  earlier  hour 
than  is  customary,  is  a  person  of  distinction  who 
is  positively  bent  on  seeing  either  the  master  or 
the  mistress  of  the  house,  and  who  will  take  no 
denial.  While  this  person  is  parleying  with  the 
chief  of  the  servants,  Lord  Holchester,  passing 
from  one  room  to  another,  happens  to  cross  the 
inner  end  of  the  hall.  The  person  instantly  darts 
at  hiin  with  a  cry  of  "Dear  Lord  Holchester!" 
Julius  turns  and  sees — Lady  Lundie ! 

He  is  fairly  caught,  and  he  gives  way  with 
his  best  grace.  As  he  opens  the  door  of  the 
nearest  room  for  her  ladyship,  he  furtively  con- 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  359 

suits  his  watch  and  says,  in  his  inmost  soul, 
"How  am  I  to  get  rid  of  her  before  the  others 
come?" 

Lady  Lundie  settles  down  on  a  sofa  in  a  whirl- 
wind of  silk  and  lace,  and  becomes,  in  her  own 
majestic  way,  "perfectly  charming,"  She  makes 
the  most  affectionate  inquiries  about  Lady  Hol- 
chester,  about  the  Dowager  Lady  Holchester, 
about  Julius  himself.  Where  have  they  been? 
what  have  they  seen?  have  time  and  change 
helped  them  to  recover  the  shock  of  that  dreadful 
event,  to  which  Lady  Lundie  dare  not  more  par- 
ticularly allude?  Julius  answers  resignedly  and 
a  little  absently.  He  makes  polite  inquiries,  on 
his  side,  as  to  her  ladyship's  plans  and  proceed- 
ings— with  a  mind  uneasily  conscious  of  the  in- 
exorable lapse  of  time,  and  of  certain  probabili- 
ties which  that  lapse  may  bring  with  it.  Lady 
Lundie  has  very  little  to  say  about  herself.  She 
is  only  in  town  for  a  few  weeks.  Her  life  is  a 
life  of  retirement.  "My  modest  round  of  duties 
at  Windygates,  Lord  Holchester;  occasionally 
relieved,  when  my  mind  is  overworked,  by  the 
society  of  a  few  earnest  friends  whose  views  har- 
monize with  my  own — my  existence  passes  (not 
quite  uselessly,  I  hope)  in  that  way.  I  have  no 
news;  I  see  nothing — except,  indeed,  yesterday, 
a  sight  of  the  saddest  kind."  She  pauses  there. 
Julius  observes  that  he  is  expected  to  make  in- 
quiries, and  makes  them  accordingly. 

Lady  Lundie  hesitates;  announces  that  her 
news  refers  to  that  painful  past  event  which  she 
has  already  touched  on ;  acknowledges  that  she 


360  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

could  not  find  herself  in  London  without  feeling 
an  act  of  duty  involved  in  making  inquiries  at 
the  asylum  in  which  Hester  Dethridge  is  confined 
for  life ;  announces  that  she  has  not  only  made 
the  inquiries,  but  has  seen  the  unhappy  woman 
herself,  has  spoken  to  her,  has  found  her  un- 
conscious of  her  dreadful  position,  incapable  of 
the  smallest  exertion  of  memory,  resigned  to  the 
existence  that  she  leads,  and  likely  (in  the  opin- 
ion of  the  medical  superintendent)  to  live  for 
some  years  to  come.  Having  stated  these  facts, 
her  ladyship  is  about  to  make  a  few  of  those 
"remarks  appropriate  to  the  occasion,"  in  which 
she  excels,  when  the  door  opens ;  and  Lady  Hol- 
chester,  in  search  of  her  missing  husband,  enters 
the  room. 


II. 

There  is  a  new  outburst  of  affectionate  interest 
on  Lady  Lundie's  part — met  civill}^,  but  not  cor- 
dially, by  Lady  Holchester.  Julius's  wife  seems, 
like  Julius,  to  be  uneasily  conscious  of  the  lapse 
of  time.  Like  Julius  again,  she  privately  won- 
ders how  long  Lady  Lundie  is  going  to  stay. 

Lady  Lundie  shows  no  signs  of  leaving  the 
sofa.  She  has  evidently  come  to  Holchester 
House  to  say  something — and  she  has  not  said 
it  yet.  Is  she  going  to  say  it?  Yes.  She  is 
going  to  get,  by  a  roundabout  way,  to  the  object 
in  view.  She  has  another  inquiry  of  the  affec- 
tionate sort  to  make.  May  she  be  permitted  to 
resume  the  subject  of  Lord  and  Lady  Holches- 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  361 

ter's  travels?  They  have  been  at  Rome.  Can 
they  confirm  the  shocking  intelligence  which 
has  reached  her  of  the  "apostasy"  of  Mrs. 
Glenarm  ? 

Lady  Holchester  can  confirm  it,  bj'  personal 
experience.  Mrs.  Glenarm  has  renounced  the 
world,  and  has  taken  refuge  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Holy  Catholic  Church.  Lady  Holchester  has 
seen  her  in  a  convent  at  Rome.  She  is  passing 
through  the  period  of  her  probation ;  and  she  is 
resolved  to  take  the  veil.  Lady  Lundie,  as  a 
good  Protestant,  lifts  her  hands  in  horror — de- 
clares the  topic  to  be  too  painful  to  dwell  on — 
and  by  way  of  varying  it,  goes  straight  to  the 
point  at  last.  Has  Lady  Holchester,  in  the 
course  of  her  continental  experience,  happened  to 
meet  with,  or  to  hear  of — Mrs.  Arnold  Brink- 
worth? 

' '  I  have  ceased,  as  you  know,  to  hold  any  com- 
munication with  my  relatives,"  Lady  Lundie 
explains.  "The  course  they  took  at  the  time  of 
our  family  trial — the  sympathy  they  felt  with  a 
Person  whom  I  cannot  even  now  trust  myself  to 
name  more  particularly — alienated  us  from  each 
other.  I  may  be  grieved,  dear  Lady  Holchester, 
but  I  bear  no  malice.  And  I  shall  always  feel  a 
motherlj'-  interest  in  hearing  of  Blanche's  wel- 
fare. I  have  been  told  that  she  and  her  husband 
were  traveling,  at  the  time  when  you  and  Lord 
Holchester  were  traveling.  Did  you  meet  with 
them?" 

Julius  and  his  wife  looked  at  each  other.  Lord 
Holchester  is  dumb.     Lady  Holchester  replies: 


363  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"We  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arnold  Brink  worth  at 
Florence,  and  afterward  at  Naples,  Lady  Lundie. 
They  returned  to  England  a  week  since,  in  an- 
ticipation of  a  certain  happy  event,  which  will 
possibly  increase  the  members  of  your  family 
circle.  They  are  now  in  London.  Indeed,  I 
may  tell  you  that  we  expect  them  here  to  lunch 
to-day." 

Having  made  this  plain  statement,  Lady  Hol- 
chester  looks  at  Lady  Lundie.  (If  that  doesn't 
hasten  her  departure,  nothing  will!) 

Quite  useless !  Lady  Lundie  holds  her  ground. 
Having  heard  absolutely  nothing  of  her  relatives 
for  the  last  six  months,  she  is  burning  with  curi- 
osity to  hear  more.  There  is  a  name  she  has  not 
mentioned  yet.  She  places  a  certain  constraint 
upon  herself,  and  mentions  it  now. 

"And  Sir  Patrick?"  says  her  ladyship,  sub- 
siding into  a  gentle  melancholy,  suggestive  of 
past  injuries  condoned  by  Christian  forgiveness. 
"I  only  know  what  report  tells  me.  Did  you 
meet  with  Sir  Patrick  at  Florence  and  Naples 
also?" 

Julius  and  his  wife  look  at  each  other  again. 
The  clock  in  the  hall  strikes.  Julius  shudders. 
Lady  Holchester's  patience  begins  to  give  way. 
There  is  an  awkward  pause.  Somebody  must 
say  something.  As  before.  Lady  Holchester  re- 
plies : 

"Sir  Patrick  went  abroad.  Lady  Lundie,  with 
his  niece  and  her  husband ;  and  Sir  Patrick  has 
come  back  with  them." 

"In  good  health?"  her  ladyship  inquires. 


MAN   AND   WIPE.  363 

"Younger  than  ever,"  Lady  Holchester  re- 
joins. 

Lady  Lundie  smiles  satirically.  Lady  Hol- 
chester notices  the  smile;  decides  that  mercy 
shown  to  this  woman  is  mercy  misplaced ;  and 
announces  (to  her  husband's  horror)  that  she  has 
news  to  tell  of  Sir  Patrick,  which  will  probably 
take  his  sister-in-law  by  surprise. 

Lady  Lundie  waits  eagerly  to  hear  what  the 
news  is. 

"It  is  no  secret,"  Lady  Holchester  proceeds — 
"though  it  is  only  known,  as  yet,  to  a  few  in- 
timate friends.  Sir  Patrick  has  made  an  im- 
portant change  in  his  life." 

Lady  Lundie's  charming  smile  suddenly  dies 
out. 

"Sir  Patrick  is  not  only  a  very  clever  and  a 
very  agreeable  man,"  Lady  Holchester  resumes, 
a  little  maliciously;  "he  is  also,  in  all  his  habits 
and  ways  (as  you  well  know),  a  man  younger 
than  his  years — who  still  possesses  many  of  the 
qualities  which  seldom  fail  to  attract  women. " 

Lady  Lundie  starts  to  her  feet. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,  Lady  Holchester, 
that  Sir  Patrick  is  married?" 

"I  do." 

Her  ladyship  drops  back  on  the  sofa — helpless, 
really  and  truly  helpless,  under  the  double  blow 
that  has  fallen  on  her.  She  is  not  only  struck 
out  of  her  place  as  the  chief  woman  of  the  fam- 
ily, but  (still  on  the  right  side  of  forty)  she  is 
socially  superannuated,  as  The  Dowager  Lady 
Lundie,  for  the  rest  of  her  life ! 


364  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"At  his  age!"  she  exclaims,  as  soon  as  she 
can  speak. 

"Pardon  me  for  reminding  you,"  Lady  Hol- 
chester  answers,  "that  plenty  of  meai  marry  at 
Sir  Patrick's  age.  In  his  case,  it  is  only  due  to 
him  to  say  that  his  motive  raises  him  beyond 
the  reach  of  ridicule  or  reproach.  His  marriage 
is  a  good  action  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word. 
It  does  honor  to  him,  as  well  as  to  the  lady  who 
shares  his  position  and  his  name." 

"A  young  girl,  of  course!"  is  Lady  Lundie's 
next  remark. 

"No.  A  woman  who  has  been  tried  by  no 
common  suffering,  and  who  has  borne  her  hard 
lot  nobly.  A  woman  who  deserves  the  calmer 
and  the  happier  life  on  which  she  is  entering 
now." 

"May  I  ask  who  she  is?" 

Before  the  question  can  be  answered,  a  knock 
at  the  house- door  announces  the  arrival  of  visi- 
tors. For  the  third  time,  Julius  and  his  wife 
look  at  each  other.  On  this  occasion,  Julius 
interferes. 

"My  wife  has  alreadj^  told  you,  Ladj^  Lundie, 
that  we  expect  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brinkworth  to 
lunch.  Sir  Patrick  and  the  new  Lady  Lundie 
accompany  them.  If  I  am  mistaken  in  suppos- 
ing that  it  might  not  be  quite  agreeable  to  you 
to  meet  them,  I  can  only  ask  your  pardon.  If  I 
am  right,  I  will  leave  Lady  Holchester  to  receive 
our  friends,  and  will  do  myself  the  honor  of  tak- 
ing you  into  another  room." 

He  advances  to  the  door  of  an  inner  room.  He 


MAN   AND   WIFE.  365 

offers  his  arm  to  Lady  Lundie.  Her  ladyship 
stands  immovable ;  determined  to  see  the  woman 
who  has^  supplanted  her.  In  a  moment  more, 
the  door 'of  entrance  from  the  hall  is  thrown 
open;  and  the  servant  announces,  "Sir  Patrick 
and  Lady  Lundie.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Arnold  Brink- 
worth." 

Lady  Lundie  looks  at  the  woman  who  has 
taken  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  family;  and 
sees— Anne  Silvester! 


END   OF    "man   and   WIFE.' 


MISS  OR  MRS.? 


PERSONS  OF  THE  STORY. 

Sir  Joseph  Graybrooke (Knight) 

Richard  Turlington (Of  the  Levant  Trade) 

Launcelot  Linzie.     .     .     .  (Of  the  College  of  Surgeons) 

James  Dicas (Of  the  Roll  of  Attorneys) 

Thomas  Wildfang (Su-perannuated  Seaman) 

Miss  Graybrooke (Sir  Joseph's  Sister) 

Natalie (Sir  Joseph's  Daughter) 

Lady  Winwood (Sir  Joseph's  Niece) 

Amelia      1 

Sophia        [-....  (Lady  Wimvood's  Stepdaughters) 

Dorothea  ) 

Period  :  The  Present  Time.    Place :  England. 


FIRST   SCENE. 

AT    SEA. 

The  night  had  come  to  an  end.  The  new- 
born day  waited  for  its  quickening  light  in  the 
silence  that  is  never  known  on  land — the  silence 
before  sunrise,  in  a  calm  at  sea. 

Not  a  breath  came  from  the  dead  air.  Not  a 
ripple  stirred  on  the  motionless  water.  Nothing 
changed  but  the  softly-growing  light ;  nothing 
moved  but  the  lazy  mist,  curling  up  to  meet  the 
sun,  its  master,  on  the  eastward  sea.  By  fine 
gradations,  the  airy  veil  of  morning  thinned  in 

(367) 


368  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

substance  as  it  rose — tliimied,  till  there  dawned 
through  it  in  the  first  rays  of  sunlight  the  tall 
white  sails  of  a  Schooner  Yacht. 

From  stem  to  stern  silence  possessed  the  vessel 
— as  silence  possessed  the  sea. 

But  one  living  creature  was  on  deck — the  man 
at  the  helm,  dozing  peaceably  with  his  arm  over 
the  useless  tiller.  Minute  by  minute  the  light 
grew,  and  the  heat  grew  with  it;  and  still  the 
helmsman  slumbered,  the  heavy  sails  hung 
noiseless,  the  quiet  water  lay  sleeping  against 
the  vessel's  sides.  The  whole  orb  of  the  sun 
was  visible  above  the  water-line,  when  the  first 
sound  pierced  its  way  through  the  morning  si- 
lence. From  far  off  over  the  shining  white 
ocean,  the  cry  of  a  sea-bird  reached  the  yacht 
on  a  sudden  out  of  the  last  airy  circles  of  the 
waning  mist. 

The  sleeper  at  the  helm  woke;  looked  up  at 
the  idle  sails,  and  yawned  in  sympathy  with 
them ;  looked  out  at  the  sea  on  either  side  of 
him,  and  shook  his  head  obstinately  at  the  su- 
perior obstinacy  of  the  calm. 

' '  Blow,  my  little  breeze ! "  said  the  man,  whist- 
ling the  sailor's  invocation  to  the  wind  softly  be- 
tween his  teeth.     "Blow,  my  little  breeze!" 

"How's  her  head?"  cried  a  bold  and  brassy 
voice,  hailing  the  deck  from  the  cabin  staircase. 

"Anywhere  you  like,  master;  all  round  the 
compass." 

The  voice  was  followed  by  the  man.  The 
owner  of  the  yacht  appeared  on  deck. 

Behold  Richard  Turlington,  Esq.,  of  the  great 


MISS   OR    MRS.  ?  3ri<) 

Levant  firm  of  Pizzituti,  Turlington  &  Branca ! 
Aged  eight-and-thirty ;  standing  stiffly  and 
sturdily  at  a  height  of  not  more  than  five  feet 
six — Mr.  Turlington  presented  to  the  view  of  his 
fellow-creatures  a  face  of  the  perpendicular  order 
of  human  architecture.  His  forehead  was  a 
straight  line,  his  upper  lip  was  another,  his  chin 
was  the  straightest  and  the  longest  line  of  all. 
As  he  turned  his  swarthy  countenance  eastward, 
and  shaded  his  light  gray  eyes  from  the  sun,  his 
knotty  hand  plainly  revealed  that  it  had  got  him 
his  living  by  its  own  labor  at  one  time  or  an- 
other in  his  life.  Taken  on  the  whole,  this  was 
a  man  whom  it  might  be  easy  to  respect,  but 
whom  it  would  be  hard  to  love.  Better  company 
at  the  official  desk  than  at  the  social  table.  Mor- 
ally and  physically — if  the  expression  may  be 
permitted — a  man  withovit  a  bend  in  him. 

"A  calm  yesterday,"  grumbled  Richard  Tur- 
lington, looking  with  stubborn  deliberation  all 
round  him.  "Aod  a  calm  to-day.  Ha!  next 
season  I'll  have  the  vessel  fitted  with  engines.  I 
hate  this!" 

"Think  of  the  filthy  coals,  and  the  infernal 
vibration,  and  leave  your  beautiful  schooner  as 
she  is.  We  are  out  for  a  holiday.  Let  the  wind 
and  the  sea  take  a  holiday  too." 

Pronouncing  those  words  of  remonstrance,  a 
slim,  nimble,  curly-headed  youag  gentleman 
joined  Richard  Turlington  on  deck,  with  his 
clothes  under  his  arm,  his  towels  in  his  hand, 
and  nothing  on  him  but  the  night-gown  in 
which  he  had  stepped  out  of  his  bed. 


370  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"Launcelot  Linzie,  you  have  been  received  on 
board  my  vessel  in  the  capacity  of  medical  at- 
tendant on  Miss  Natalie  Graybrooke,  at  her 
father's  request.  Keep  your  place,  if  you  please. 
When  I  want  your  advice,  I'll  ask  you  for  it." 
Answering  in  those  terms,  the  elder  man  fixed 
his  colorless  gray  eyes  on  the  younger  with  an 
expression  which  added  plainly,  "There  won't 
be  room  enough  in  this  schooner  much  longer 
for  me  and  for  you. " 

Launcelot  Linzie  had  his  reasons  (apparently) 
for  declining  to  let  his  host  offend  him  on  any 
terms  whatever. 

"Thank  you!"  he  rejoined,  in  a  tone  of  satir- 
ical good  humor.  "It  isn't  easy  to  keep  my 
place  on  board  your  vessel.  I  can't  help  pre- 
suming to  enjoy  myself  as  if  I  was  the  owner. 
The  life  is  such  a  new  one — to  me  !  It's  so  de- 
lightfully easy,  for  instance,  to  wash  yourself 
here.  On  shore  it's  a  complicated  question  of 
jugs  and  basins  and  tubs;  one  is  always  in  dan- 
ger of  breaking  something,  or  spoiling  some- 
thing. Here  you  have  only  to  jump  out  of  bed, 
to  run  up  on  deck,  and  to  do  this!" 

He  turned,  and  scampered  to  the  bows  of  the 
vessel.  In  one  instant  he  was  out  of  his  night- 
gown, in  another  he  was  on  the  bulwark,  in  a 
third  he  was  gamboling  luxuriously  in  sixty 
fathoms  of  salt-water. 

Turlington's  eyes  followed  him  with  a  reluct- 
ant, uneasy  attention  as  he  swam  round  the  ves- 
sel, the  only  moving  object  in  view.  Turling- 
ton's mind,  steady  and  slow  in  all  its  operations, 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  371 

set  him  a  problem  to  be  solved,  on  given  condi- 
tions, as  follows: 

"Launcelot  Linzie  is  fifteen  years  younger 
than  I  am.  Add  to  that,  Launcelot  Linzie  is 
Natalie  Graybrooke's  cousin.  Given  those  two 
advantages — Query:  Has  he  taken  Natalie's 
fancy?" 

Turning  that  question  slowly  over  and  over 
in  his  mind,  Richard  Turlington  seated  himself 
in  a  corner  at  the  stern  of  the  vessel.  He  was 
still  at  work  on  the  problem,  when  the  young 
surgeon  returned  to  his  cabin  to  put  the  finishing 
touches  to  his  toilet.  He  had  not  reached  the 
solution  when  the  steward  appeared  an  hour 
later  and  said,  "Breakfast  is  ready,  sir!" 

They  were  a  party  of  five  round  the  cabin 
table. 

First,  Sir  Joseph  Graybrooke.  Inheritor  of  a 
handsome  fortune  made  by  his  father  and  his 
grandfather  in  trade.  Mayor,  twice  elected,  of 
a  thriving  provincial  town.  Officiallj^  privi- 
leged, while  holding  that  digaity,  to  hand  a  sil- 
ver trowel  to  a  royal  personage  condescending  to 
lay  a  first  stone  of  a  charitable  edifice.  Knighted, 
accordingly,  in  honor  of  the  occasion.  "Worthy 
of  the  honor  and  worthy  of  the  occasion.  A  type 
of  his  eminently  respectable  class.  Possessed  of 
an  amiable,  rosy  face,  and  soft,  silky  white  hair. 
Sound  in  his  principles ;  tidy  in  his  dress ;  blessed 
with  moderate  politics  and  a  good  digestion — 
a  harmless,  healthy,  spruce,  spockless,  weak- 
minded  old  man. 

Secondly,  Miss  Lavinia  Graybrooke,  Sir  Jo- 


373  WORKS    OF    WILKIE     COLLINS. 

seph's  maiden  sister.  Personally,  Sir  Joseph  in 
petticoats.  If  you  knew  one  you  knew  the  other. 

Thirdly,  Miss  Natalie  Graybrooke — Sir  Jo- 
seph's only  child. 

She  had  inherited  the  personal  appearance  and 
the  teniperament  of  her  mother — dead  man}^ 
years  since.  There  had  been  a  mixture  of  Negro 
blood  and  French  blood  in  the  late  Lady  Gray- 
brooke's  family,  settled  originally  in  Martinique. 
Natalie  had  her  mother's  warm  dusky  color,  her 
mother's  superb  black  hair,  and  her  mother's 
melting,  lazy,  lovely  brown  eyes.  At  fifteen 
years  of  age  (dating  from  her  last  birthday)  she 
possessed  the  development  of  the  bosom  and 
limbs  which  in  England  is  rarely  attained  before 
twenty.  Everything  about  the  girl — except  her 
little  rosy  ears — was  on  a  grand  Amazonian 
scale.  Her  shapely  hand  was  long  and  large ; 
her  supple  waist  was  the  waist  of  a  woman.  The 
indolent  grace  of  all  her  movements  had  its  mo- 
tive power  in  an  almost  masculine  firmness  of 
action  and  profusion  of  physical  resource.  This 
remarkable  bodily  development  was  far  from  be- 
ing accompanied  by  any  corresponding  develop- 
ment of  character.  Natalie's  manner  was  the 
gentle,  innocent  manner  of  a  young  girl.  She 
had  her  father's  sweet  temper  ingrafted  on  her 
mother's  variable  Southern  nature.  She  moved 
like  a  goddess,  and  she  laughed  like  a  child. 
Signs  of  maturing  too  rapidly — of  outgrowing 
her  strength,  as  the  phrase  went — had  made 
their  appearance  in  Sir  Joseph's  daughter  during 
the  spring.     The  family  doctor  had  suggested  a 


MISS  OR   MRS.  V  373 

sea-voyage,  as  a  wiso  inaiinor  of  employing  the 
fine  summer  months.  Richard  Turlington's  yacht 
was  placed  at  her  disposal,  with  Richard  Tur- 
lington himself  included  as  one  of  the  fixtures  of 
"the  vessel.  With  her  father  and  her  aunt  to  keep 
up  round  her  the  atmosphere  of  home— with 
Cousin  Launcelot  (more  commonly  known  as 
"Launce")  to  carry  out,  if  necessary,  the  medi- 
cal treatment  prescribed  by  superior  authority  on 
shore — the  lovely  invalid  embarked  on  her  sum- 
mer cruise,  and  sprang  up  into  a  new  existence 
in  the  life-giving  breezes  of  the  sea.  After  two 
happy  months  of  lazy  coasting  round  the  shores 
of  England,  all  that  remained  of  Natalie's  illness 
was  represented  by  a  delicious  languor  in  her 
eyes,  and  an  utter  inability  to  devote  herself  to 
anything  which  took  the  shape  of  a  serious  occu- 
pation. As  she  sat  at  the  cabin  breakfast-table 
that  morning,  in  her  quaintly-made  sailing  dress 
of  old-fashioned  nankeen — her  inbred  childish- 
ness of  manner  contrasting  delightfully  with  the 
blooming  maturity  of  her  form— the  man  must 
have  been  trebly  armed  indeed  in  the  modern 
philosophy  who  could  have  denied  that  the  first 
of  a  woman's  rights  is  the  right  of  being  beauti- 
ful ;  and  the  foremost  of  a  woman's  merits,  the 
merit  of  being  young! 

The  other  two  persons  present  at  the  table  were 
the  two  gentlemen  who  have  already  appeared 
on  the  deck  of  the  yacht. 

"Not  a  breath  of  wind  stirring !"  said  Richard 
Turlington.  "The  weather  has  got  a  grudge 
against  us.     We  have  drifted  about  four  or  five 


374  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

miles  in  the  last  eight-and-forty  Jiours.  You 
will  never  take  another  cruise  with  me' — you 
must  be  longing  to  get  on  shore." 

He  addressed  himself  to  Natalie ;  plainly  eager 
to  make  himself  agreeable  to  the  young  lady — 
and  plainly  unsuccessful  in  producing  any  im- 
pression on  her.  She  made  a  civil  answer;  and 
looked  at  her  tea-cup,  instead  of  looking  at  Rich- 
ard Turlington. 

"You  might  fancy  yourself  on  shore  at  this 
moment,"  said  Launce.  "The  vessel  is  as  steady 
as  a  house,  and  the  swing-table  we  are  eating 
our  breakfast  on  is  as  even  as  your  dining-room 
table  at  home. ' ' 

He  too  addressed  himself  to  Natalie,  but  with- 
out betraying  the  anxiety  to  please  her  which 
had  been  shown  by  the  other.  For  all  that,  he 
diverted  the  girl's  attention  from  her  tea-cup; 
and  his  idea  instantly  awakened  a  responsive 
idea  in  Natalie's  mind. 

"It  will  be  so  strange  on  shore,"  she  said,  "to 
find  myself  in  a  room  that  never  turns  on  one 
side,  and  to  sit  at  a  table  that  never  tilts  down 
to  my  knees  at  one  time,  or  rises  up  to  my  chin 
at  another.  How  I  shall  miss  the  wash  of  the 
water  at  my  ear,  and  the  ring  of  the  bell  on  deck, 
when  I  am  awake  at  night  on  land !  No  interest 
there  in  how  the  wind  blows,  or  how  the  sails 
are  set.  No  asking  your  way  of  the  sun,  when 
you  are  lost,  with  a  little  brass  instrument  and 
a  morsel  of  pencil  and  paper.  No  delightful 
wandering  wherever  the  wind  takes  you,  with- 
out the  worry  of  planning  beforehand  where  you 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  375 

are  to  go.  Oh  how  I  shall  miss  the  dear,  change- 
able, inconstant  sea!  And  how  sorry  I  am  I'm 
not  a  man  and  a  sailor !" 

This  to  the  guest  admitted  on  board  on  suffer- 
ance, and  not  one  word  of  it  addressed,  even  bj'- 
chance,  to  the  owner  of  the  yacht ! 

Richard  Turlington's  heavy  eyebrows  con- 
tracted with  an  unmistakable  expression  of  pain. 

"If  this  calm  weather  holds,"  he  went  on,  ad- 
dressing himself  to  Sir  Joseph,  "I  am  afraid, 
Graybrooke,  I  shall  not  be  able  to  bring  you 
back  to  the  port  we  sailed  from  by  the  end  of  the 
week." 

"Whenever  you  like,  Richard,"  answered  the 
old  gentleman,  resignedly.  "Any  time  will  do 
for  me," 

"Any  time  within  reasonable  limits,  Joseph," 
said  Miss  Lavinia,  evidently  feeling  that  her 
brother  was  conceding  too  much.  She  spoke 
with  Sir  Joseph's  amiable  smile  and  Sir  Joseph's 
softly-pitched  voice.  Two  twin  babies  could 
hardly  have  been  more  like  one  another. 

While  these  few  words  were  being  exchanged 
among  the  elders,  a  private  communication  was 
in  course  of  progress  between  the  two  young 
people  under  the  cabin  table.  Natalie's  smartly- 
slippered  foot  felt  its  way  cautiously  inch  by 
inch  over  the  carpet  till  it  touched  Launce's 
boot.  Launce,  devouring  his  breakfast,  instantly 
looked  up  from  his  plate,  and  then,  at  a  second 
touch  from  Natalie,  looked  down  again  in  a 
violent  hurry.     After  pausing  to  make  sure  that 

she  was  not  noticed,  Natalie  took  up  her  knife. 
Vol.  4  id  ^ 


376  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Under  a  perfectly-acted  pretense  of  toying  with 
it  absently,  in  the  character  of  a  young  lady  ab- 
sorbed in  thought,  she  began  dividing  a  morsel 
of  ham  left  on  the  edge  of  her  plate,  into  six  tiny 
pieces.  Launce's  eye  looked  in  sidelong  expec- 
tation at  the  divided  and  subdivided  ham.  He 
was  evidently  waiting  to  see  the  collection  of 
morsels  put  to  some  telegraphic  use,  previously 
determined  on  between  his  neighbor  and  him- 
self. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  talk  proceeded  among 
the  other  persons  at  the  breakfast- table.  Miss 
Lavinia  addressed  herself  to  Launce. 

"Do  you  know,  you  careless  boy,  you  gave  me 
a  fright  this  morning?  I  was  sleeping  with  my 
cabin  window  open,  and  I  was  awoke  by  an 
awful  splash  in  the  water.  I  called  for  the  stew- 
ardess. I  declare  I  thought  somebody  had  fallen 
overboard!" 

Sir  Joseph  looked  up  briskly;  his  sister  had 
accidentally  touched  on  an  old  association. 

"Talk  of  falling  overboard,"  he  began,  "re- 
minds me  of  an  extraordinary  adventure — " 

There  Launce  broke  in,  making  his  apologies. 

"It  shan't  occur  again,  Miss  Lavinia,"  he 
said.  "To-morrow  morning  I'll  oil  myself  all 
over,  and  slip  into  the  water  as  silently  as  a 
seal." 

"Of  an  extraordinary  adventure,"  persisted 
Sir  Joseph,  "which  happened  to  me  many  years 
ago,  when  I  was  a  young  man.     Lavinia?" 

He  stopped,  and  looked  interrogatively  at  his 
sister.     Miss  Graybrooke  nodded  her  head  re- 


MISS  OR  MRS.?  377 

sponsively,  and  settled  herself  in  her  chair,  as  if 
summoning  her  attention  in  anticipation  of  a 
coming  demand  on  it.  To  persons  well  acquainted 
with  the  brother  and  sister  these  proceedings 
were  ominous  of  an  impending  narrative,  pro- 
tracted to  a  formidable  length.  The  two  always 
told  a  story  in  couples,  and  always  differed  with 
each  other  about  the  facts,  the  sister  politely  con- 
tradicting the  brother  when  it  was  Sir  Joseph's 
stor}^  and  the  brother  politely  contradicting  the 
sister  when  it  was  Miss  Lavinia's  story.  Sepa- 
rated one  from  the  other,  and  thus  relieved  of 
their  own  habitual  interchange  of  contradiction, 
neither  of  them  had  ever  been  known  to  attempt 
the  relation  of  the  simplest  series  of  events  with- 
out breaking  down. 

"It  was  five  years  before  I  knew  you,  Rich- 
ard," proceeded  Sir  Joseph. 

"Six  years,"  said  Miss  Graybrooke. 

"Excuse  me,  Lavinia. " 

"No,  Joseph,  I  have  it  down  in  my  diary." 

"Let  us  waive  the  point"  (Sir  Joseph  in- 
variably used  this  formula  as  a  means  of  at  once 
conciliating  his  sister,  and  getting  a  fresh  start 
for  his  story.)  "I  was  cruising  off  the  Mersey 
in  a  Liverpool  pilot-boat.  I  had  hired  the  boat 
in  company  with  a  friend  of  mine,  formerly 
notorious  in  London  society,  under  the  nickname 
(derived  from  the  peculiar  brown  color  of  his 
whiskers)  of  'Mahoganj^  Dobbs.'  " 

' '  The  color  of  his  liveries,  Joseph,  not  the  color 
of  his  whiskers." 

"My  dear  Lavinia,  you  are  thinking  of  'Sea- 


378  WORKS   OF   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

green  Shaw,'  so  called  from  the  extraordinary 
liveries  he  adopted  for  his  servants  in  the  year 
when  he  was  sheriff. ' ' 

"I  think  not,  Joseph." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Lavinia. " 

Richard  Turlington's  knotty  fingers  drummed 
impatiently  on  the  table.  He  looked  toward 
Natalie.  She  was  idly  arranging  her  little  mor- 
sels of  ham  in  a  pattern  on  her  plate.  Launcelot 
Linzie,  still  more  idly,  was  looking  at  the  pat- 
tern. Seeing  what  he  saw  now,  Richard  solved 
the  problem  which  had  puzzled  him  on  deck.  It 
was  simply  impossible  that  Natalie's  fancy  could 
be  really  taken  by  such  an  empty-headed  fool  as 
that! 

Sir  Joseph  went  on  with  his  story : 

"We  were  some  ten  or  a  dozen  miles  off  the 
mouth  of  the  Mersey — " 

"Nautical  miles,  Joseph." 

"It  doesn't  matter,  Lavinia." 

"Excuse  me,  brother,  the  late  great  and  good 
Doctor  Johnson  said  accuracy  ought  always  to 
be  studied  even  in  the  most  trifling  things." 

"They  were  common  miles,  Lavinia." 

"They  were  nautical  miles,  Joseph." 

"Let  us  waive  the  point.  Mahogany  Dobbs 
and  I  happened  to  be  below  in  the  cabin,  occu- 
pied— " 

Here  Sir  Joseph  paused  (with  his  amiable 
smile)  to  consult  his  memory.  Miss  Lavinia 
waited  (with  her  amiable  smile)  for  the  coming 
opportunity  of  setting  her  brother  right.  At  the 
same  moment  Natalie  laid  down  her  knife  and 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  379 

softly  touched  Launce  under  the  table.  When 
she  thus  claimed  his  attention  the  six  pieces  of 
ham  were  arranged  as  follows  in  her  plate :  Two 
pieces  were  placed  opposite  each  other,  and  four 
pieces  were  ranged  perpendicularlj-  under  them. 
Launce  looked,  and  twice  touched  Natalie  under 
the  table.  Interpreted  by  the  Code  agreed  on 
between  the  two,  the  signal  in  the  plate  meant, 
"I  must  see  you  in  private."  And  Launce's 
double  touch  answered,  "After  breakfast." 

Sir  Joseph  proceeded  with  his  story.  Natalie 
took  up  her  knife  again.  Another  signal  com- 
ing! 

"We  were  both  down  in  the  cabin,  occupied 
in  finishing  our  dinner — " 

"Just  sitting  down  to  lunch,  Joseph." 

"My  dear!  I  ought  to  know." 

"I  only  repeat  what  I  heard,  brother.  The 
last  time  you  told  the  story,  you  and  your  friend 
were  sitting  down  to  lunch." 

"We  won't  particularize,  Lavinia.  Suppose 
we  say  occupied  over  a  meal?" 

"If  it  is  of  no  more  importance  than  that, 
Joseph,  it  would  be  surely  better  to  leave  it  out 
altogether." 

"Let  us  waive  the  point.  Well,  we  were  sud-  " 
denly  alarmed  by  a  shout  on  deck,  'Man  over- 
board!' We  both  rushed  up  the  cabin  stairs, 
naturally  under  the  impression  that  one  of  our 
crew  had  fallen  into  the  sea:  an  impression 
shared,  I  ought  to  add,  by  the  man  at  the  helm, 
who  had  given  the  alarm." 

Sir  Joseph  paused  again.     He  was  approach- 


380  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

ing  one  of  the  great  dramatic  points  in  his  story, 
and  was  naturally  anxious  to  present  it  as  impres- 
sively as  possible.  He  considered  with  himself, 
with  his  head  a  little  on  one  side.  Miss  Lavinia 
considered  with  herse/f,  with  her  head  a  little 
on  one  side.  Natalie  laid  down  her  knife  again, 
and  again  touched  Launce  under  the  table.  This 
time  there  were  five  pieces  of  ham  ranged  longi- 
tudinally on  the  plate,  with  one  piece  immediately 
under  them  at  the  center  of  the  line.  Interpreted 
by  the  Code,  this  signal  indicated  two  ominous 
words,  ' '  Bad  news. ' '  Launce  looked  significantly 
at  the  owner  of  the  yacht  (meaning  of  the  look, 
"Is  he  at  the  bottom  of  it?").  Natalie  frowned 
in  reply  (meaning  of  the  frown,  "Yes,  he  is"). 
Launce  looked  down  again  into  the  plate.  Na- 
talie instantly  pushed  all  the  pieces  of  ham  to- 
gether in  a  little  heap  (meaning  of  the  heap,  ' '  No 
more  to  say"). 

"Well?"  said  Richard  Turlington,  turning 
sharply  on  Sir  Joseph.  "Get  on  with  your 
story.     What  next?" 

Thus  far  he  had  not  troubled  himself  to  show 
even  a  decent  pretense  of  interest  in  his  old 
friend's  perpetuall3^-interrupted  narrative.  It 
was  only  when  Sir  Joseph  had  reached  his  last 
sentence — intimating  that  the  man  overboard 
might  turn  out  in  course  of  time  not  to  be  a  man 
of  the  pilot-boat's  crew — it  was  only  then  that 
Turlington  sat  up  in  his  chair,  and  showed  signs 
of  suddenly  feeling  a  strong  interest  in  the  prog- 
ress of  the  story. 

Sir  Joseph  went  on : 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  381 

"As  soon  as  we  got  on  deck,  we  saw  the  man 
in  the  water,  astern.  Our  vessel  was  hove  up 
in  the  wind,  and  the  boat  was  lowered.  The 
master  and  one  of  the  men  took  the  oars.  All 
told,  our  crew  were  seven  in  numl)er.  Two  away 
in  the  boat,  a  third  at  the  helm,  and,  to  my 
amazement,  when  I  looked  round,  the  other  four 
behind  me  making  our  number  complete.  At 
the  same  moment  Mahogany  Dobbs,  who  was 
looking  through  a  telescope,  called  out,  'Who 
the  devil  can  he  be?  The  man  is  floating  on  a 
hen-coop,  and  we  have  got  nothing  of  the  sort  on 
board  this  pilot-boat. '  ' ' 

The  one  person  present  who  happened  to  notice 
Richard  Turlington's  face  when  those  words 
were  pronounced  was  Launcelot  Linzie.  He — 
and  he  alone — saw  the  Levant  trader's  swarthy 
complexion  fade  slowly  to  a  livid  ashen  gray ;  Tiis 
eyes  the  while  fixing  themselves  on  Sir  Joseph 
Graybrooke  with  a  furtive  glare  in  them  like  the 
glare  in  the  eyes  of  a  wild  beast.  Apparently 
conscious  that  Launce  was  looking  at  him — 
though  he  never  turned  his  head  Launce's  way 
— he  laid  his  elbow  on  the  table,  lifted  his  arm, 
and  so  rested  his  face  on  his  hand,  while  the 
story  went  on,  as  to  screen  it  effectually  from 
the  young  surgeon's  view. 

"The  man  was  brought  on  board,"  proceeded 
Sir  Joseph,  "sure  enough,  with  a  hen-coop — ^on 
which  he  had  been  found  floating.  Th^  poor 
wretch  was  blue  with  terror  and  exposure  in  the 
water;  he  fainted  when  we  lifted  him  on  deck. 
When  he  came  to  himself  he  told  us  a  horrible 


382  WORKS     OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

story.  He  was  a  sick  and  destitute  foreign  sea- 
man, and  he  had  hidden  himself  in  the  hold  of 
an  English  vessel  (bound  to  a  port  in  his  native 
country)  which  had  sailed  from  Liverpool  that 
morning.  He  had  been  discovered,  and  brought 
before  the  captain.  The  captain,  a  monster  in 
human  form,  if  ever  there  was  one  yet — " 

Before  the  next  word  of  the  sentence  could  pass 
Sir  Joseph's  lips,  Turlington  startled  the  little 
party  in  the  cabin  by  springing  suddenly  to  his 
feet. 

"The  breeze!"  he  cried;  "the  breeze  at  last!" 
As  he  spoke,  he  wheeled  round  to  the  cabin 
door  so  as  to  turn  his  back  on  his  guests,  and 
hailed  the  deck. 

"Which  way  is  the  wind?" 
"There  is  not  a  breath  of  wind,  sir." 
Not  the  slightest  movement  in  the  vessel  had 
been  perceptible  in  the  cabin ;  not  a  sound  had 
been  audible  indicating  the  rising  of  the  breeze. 
The  owner  of  the  yacht — accustomed  to  the  sea, 
capable,  if  necessary,  of  sailing  his  own  vessel — 
had  surely  committed  a  strange  mistake!  He 
turned  again  lo  his  friends,  and  made  his  apolo- 
gies with  an  excess  of  polite  regret  far  from 
characteristic  of  him  at  other  times  and  under 
other  circumstances. 

"Go  on,"  he  said  to  Sir  Joseph,  when  he  had 
got  to  the  end  of  his  excuses;  "I  never  heard 
such  an  interesting  story  in  my  life.  Pray  go 
on!" 

The  request  was  not  an  easy  one  to  comply 
with.     Sir  Joseph's  ideas  had  been  thrown  into 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  383 

confusion.  Miss  Lavinia's  contradictions  (held 
in  reserve)  had  been  scattered  beyond  recall. 
Both  brother  and  sister  were,  moreover,  ad- 
ditionally hindered  in  recovering  the  control  of 
their  own  resources  by  the  look  and  manner  of 
their  host.  He  alarmed,  instead  of  encouraging 
the  two  harmless  old  people,  by  fronting  them 
almost  fiercely,  with  his  elbows  squared  on  the 
table,  and  his  face  expressive  of  a  dogged  resolu- 
tion to  sit  there  and  listen,  if  need  be,  for  the  rest 
of  his  life.  Launce  was  the  person  who  set  Sir 
Joseph  going  again.  After  first  looking  atten- 
tively at  Richard,  he  took  his  uncle  straight 
back  to  the  story  by  means  cf  a  question,  thus : 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  the  captain  of  the 
ship  threw  the  man  overboard?" 

"That  is  just  what  he  did,  Launce.  The  poor 
wretch  was  too  ill  to  work  his  passage.  The  cap- 
tain declared  he  would  have  no  idle  foreign  vag- 
abond in  his  ship  to  eat  up  the  provisions  of 
Englishmen  who  worked.  With  his  own  hands 
he  cast  the  hen-coop  into  the  water,  and  (assisted 
by  one  of  his  sailors)  he  threw  the  man  after  it, 
and  told  him  to  float  back  to  Liverpool  with  the 
evening  tide. ' ' 

"A  lie!"  cried  Turlington,  addressing  him- 
self, not  to  Sir  Joseph,  but  to  Launce. 

"Are  you  acquainted  with  the  circumstances?" 
asked  Launce,  quietly. 

"I  know  nothing  about  the  circumstances.  I 
say,  from  my  own  experience,  that  foreign  sail- 
ors are  even  greater  blackguards  than  English 
sailors.     The  man  had  met  with  an  accident,  no 


384  WORKS     OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

doubt.  The  rest  of  his  story  was  a  lie,  and  the 
object  of  it  was  to  open  Sir  Joseph's  purse." 

Sir  Joseph  mildly  shook  his  head. 

"No  lie,  Richard.  Witnesses  proved  that  the 
man  had  spoken  the  truth." 

"Witnesses?     Pooh!     More  liars,  you  mean," 

"I  went  to  the  owners  of  the  vessel,"  pursued 
Sir  Joseph.  "I  got  from  them  the  names  of  the 
officers  and  the  crew,  and  I  waited,  leaving  the 
case  in  the  hands  of  the  Liverpool  police.  The 
ship  was  wrecked  at  the  mouth  of  the  Amazon, 
but  the  crew  and  the  cargo  were  saved.  The 
men  belonging  to  Liverpool  came  back.  They 
were  a  bad  set,  I  grant  you.  But  they  were 
examined  separately  about  the  treatment  of  the 
foreign  sailor,  and  they  all  told  the  same  story. 
They  could  give  no  account  of  their  captain,  nor 
of  the  sailor  who  had  been  his  accomplice  in  the 
crime,  except  that  they  had  not  embarked  in 
the  ship  which  brought  the  rest  of  the  crew  to 
England.  Whatever  may  have  become  of  the 
captain  since,  he  certainly  never  returned  to 
Liverpool." 

"Did  you  find  out  his  name?" 

The  question  was  asked  by  Turlington.  Even 
Sir  Joseph,  the  least  observant  of  men,  noticed 
that  it  was  put  with  a  perfectly  unaccountable 
irritability  of  manner. 

"Don't  be  angry,  Richard,"  said  the  old  gen- 
tleman.    "What  is  there  to  be  angry  about?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  I'm  not 
angry — I'm  only  curious.  Did  you  find  out  who 
he  was?" 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  385 

"I  did.  His  name  was  Go  ward.  He  was 
well  known  at  Liverpool  as  a  very  clever  and  a 
very  dangerous  man.  Quite  young  at  the  time 
I  am  speaking  of,  and  a  first-rate  sailor;  famous 
for  taking  command  of  unseaworthy  ships  and 
vagabond  crews.  Report  described  him  to  me 
as  having  made  considerable  sums  of  money  in 
that  way,  for  a  man  in  his  position;  serving 
firms,  5^ou  know,  with  a  bad  name,  and  running 
all  sorts  of  desperate  risks.  A  sad  ruffian,  Rich- 
ard !  More  than  once  in  trouble,  on  both  sides  of 
the  Atlantic,  for  acts  of  violence  and  cruelty. 
Dead,  I  dare  say,  long  since." 

"Or  possibly,"  said  Launce,  "alive,  under  an- 
other name,  and  thriving  in  a  new  way  of  life, 
with  more  desperate  risks  in  it,  of  some  other 
sort." 

"Are  you  acquainted  with  the  circumstances?" 
asked  Turlington,  retorting  Launce's  question 
on  him,  with  a  harsh  ring  of  defiance  in  his 
brassy  voice. 

"What  became  of  the  poor  foreign  sailor, 
papa?"  said  Natalie,  purposely  interrupting 
Launce  before  he  could  meet  the  question 
angrily  asked  of  him,  by  an  angry  reply. 

"We  made  a  subscription,  and  spoke  to  his 
consul,  my  dear.  He  went  back  to  his  country, 
poor  fellow,  comfortably  enough." 

"And  there  is  an  end  of  Sir  Joseph's  story," 
said  Turlington,  rising  noisily  from  his  chair. 
"It's  a  pit}^  we  haven't  got  a  literary  man  on 
board — he  would  make  a  novel  of  it."  He 
looked  up  at  the  skylight  as  he  got  on  his  feet. 


386  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"Here  is  the  breeze,  this  time,"  he  exclaimed, 
"and  no  mistake!" 

It  was  true.  At  last  the  breeze  had  come.  The 
sails  flapped,  the  main  boom  swung  over  with  a 
thump,  and  the  stagnant  water,  stirred  at  last, 
bubbled  merrily  past  the  vessel's  sides. 

"Come  on  deck,  Natalie,  and  get  some  fresh 
air,"  said  Miss  Lavinia,  leading  the  way  to  the 
cabin  door. 

Natalie  held  up  the  skirt  of  her  nankeen  dress, 
and  exhibited  the  purple  trimming  torn  away 
over  an  extent  of  some  yards. 

"Give  me  half  an  hour  first,  aunt,  in  my 
cabin,"  she  said,  "to  mend  this." 

Miss  Lavinia  elevated  her  venerable  eyebrows 
in  amazement. 

"You  have  done  nothing  but  tear  your  dresses, 
my  dear,  since  you  have  been  in  Mr.  Turling- 
ton's yacht.  Most  extraordinary !  I  have  torn 
none  of  mine  during  the  whole  cruise." 

Natalia's  dark  color  deepened  a  shade.  She 
laughed,  a  little  uneasily.  "I  am  so  awkward 
on  board  ship,"  she  replied,  and  turned  away 
and  shut  herself  up  in  her  cabin. 

Richard  Turlington  produced  his  case  of  cigars. 

"Now  is  the  time,"  he  said  to  Sir  Joseph, 
"for  the  best  cigar  of  the  day— the  cigar  after 
breakfast.     Come  on  deck." 

"You  will  join  us,  Launce?"  said  Sir  Joseph. 

"Give  me  half  an  hour  first  over  my  books," 
Launce  replied.  "I  mustn't  let  my  medical 
knowledge  get  musty  at  sea,  and  I  might  not 
feel  inclined  to  study  later  in  the  day." 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  387 

"Quite  right,  my  dear  boy,  quite  right." 

Sir  Joseph  patted  his  nephew  approvingly  on 

the  shoulder.     Launce  turned  away  on  his  side, 

and  shut  himself  up  in  his  cabin. 

The  other  three  ascended  together  to  the  deck. 


SECOND   SCENE. 

THE      STORE-ROOM. 

Persons  possessed  of  sluggish  livers  and  ten- 
der hearts  find  two  serious  drawbacks  to  the  en- 
joyment of  a  cruise  at  sea.  It  is  exceedingly 
difficult  to  get  enough  walking  exercise ;  and  it 
is  next  to  impossible  (where  secrecy  is  an  object) 
to  make  love  without  being  found  out.  Revert- 
ing for  the  moment  to  the  latter  difficulty  only, 
life  within  the  narrow  and  populous  limits  of  a 
vessel  may  be  defined  as  essentially  life  in  pub- 
lic. From  morning  to  night  you  are  in  your 
neighbor's  way,  or  your  neighbor  is  in  your  way. 
As  a  necessary  result  of  these  conditions,  the 
rarest  of  existing  men  may  be  defined  as  the 
man  who  is  capable  of  stealing  a  kiss  at  sea 
without  discovery.  An  inbred  capacity  for 
stratagem  of  the  finest  sort;  inexhaustible  in- 
ventive resources;  patience  which  can  flourish 
under  superhuman  trials;  presence  of  mind 
which  can  keep  its  balance  victoriously  under 
every  possible  stress  of  emergency — these  are 
some  of  the  qualifications  which  must  accom- 
pany Love  on  a  cruise,  when  Love  embarks  in 


388  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COI^LINS. 

the  character  of  a  contraband  commodity  not 
duly  entered  on  the  papers  of  the  ship. 

Having  established  a  Code  of  Signals  which 
enabled  them  to  communicate  privately,  while 
the  eyes  and  ears  of  others  were  wide  open  on 
every  side  of  them,  Natalie  and  Launce  were 
next  confronted  by  the  more  serious  difiSculty  of 
finding  a  means  of  meeting  together  at  stolen 
interviews  on  board  the  yacht.  Possessing  none 
of  those  precious  moral  qualifications  already 
enumerated  as  the  qualifications  of  an  accom- 
plished lover  at  sea,  Launce  had  proved  unequal 
to  grapple  with  the  obstacles  in  his  way.  Left 
to  her  own  inventive  resources,  Natalie  had  first 
suggested  the  young  surgeon's  medical  studies 
as  Launce's  unanswerable  excuse  for  shutting 
himself  up  at  intervals  in  the  lower  regions,  and 
had  then  hit  on  the  happy  idea  of  tearing  her 
trimmings,  and  condemning  herself  to  repair  her 
own  carelessness,  as  the  all-sufficient  reason  for 
similar  acts  of  self -seclusion  on  her  side.  In  this 
way  the  lovers  contrived,  while  the  innocent 
ruling  authorities  were  on  deck,  to  meet  privately 
below  them,  on  the  neutral  ground  of  the  main 
cabin;  and  there,  by  previous  arrangement  at 
the  breakfast-table,  they  were  about  to  meet  pri- 
vately now. 

Natalie's  door  was,  as  usual  on  these  occa- 
sions, the  first  that  opened ;  for  this  sound  reason, 
that  Natalie's  quickness  was  the  quickness  to  be 
depended  on  in  case  of  accident. 

She  looked  up  at  the  sky-light.  There  were 
the  legs  of  the  two  gentlemen  and  the  skirts  of 


MISS    OR    MRS.  ?  389 

her  aunt  visible  (and  stationary)  on  the  lee  side 
of  the  deck.  She  advanced  a  few  steps  and  lis- 
tened. There  was  a  pause  in  the  murmur  of  the 
voices  above.  She  looked  up  again.  One  pair 
of  legs  (not  her  father's)  had  disappeared.  With- 
out an  instant's  hesitation,  Natalie  darted  back 
to  her  own  door,  just  in  time  to  escape  Richard 
Turlington  descending  the  cabin  stairs.  All  he 
did  was  to  go  to  one  of  the  drawers  under  the 
main-cabin  book-case  and  to  take  out  a  map, 
ascending  again  immediately  to  the  deck.  Na- 
talie's guilty  conscience  rushed  instantly,  never- 
theless, to  the  conclusion  that  Richard  suspected 
her.  When  she  showed  herself  for  the  second 
time,  instead  of  venturing  into  the  cabin,  she 
called  across  it  in  a  whisper, 

"Launce!" 

Launce  appeared  at  his  door.  He  was  peremp- 
torily checked  before  he  could  cross  the  threshold. 

"Don't  stir  a  step!  Richard  has  been  down  in 
the  cabin!     Richard  suspects  us!" 

' '  Nonsense !     Come  out. ' ' 

"Nothing  will  induce  me,  unless  you  can  find 
some  other  place  than  the  cabin. ' ' 

Some  other  place?  How  easy  to  find  it  on 
land !  How  apparently  impossible  at  sea !  There 
was  the  forecastle  (full  of  men)  at  one  end  of  the 
vessel.  There  was  the  sail-room  (full  of  sails) 
at  the  other.  There  was  the  ladies'  cabin  (used 
as  the  ladies'  dressing-room;  inaccessible,  in 
that  capacity,  to  every  male  human  being  on 
board).  Was  there  any  disposable  inclosed  space 
to  be  found  amidships?     On  one  side  there  were 


390  WORKS     OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

the  sleeping  berths  of  the  sailing-master  and  his 
mate  (impossible  to  borrow  them).  On  the  other 
side  was  the  steward's  store-room.  Launce  con- 
sidered for  a  moment.  The  steward's  store- 
room was  just  the  thing! 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Natalie,  as 
her  lover  made  straight  for  a  closed  door  at  the 
lower  extremity  of  the  main  cabin. 

"To  speak  to  the  steward,  darling.  "Wait  one 
moment,  and  you  will  see  me  again." 

Launce  opened  the  store-room  door,  and  dis- 
covered, not  the  steward,  but  his  wife,  who 
occupied  the  situation  of  stewardess  on  board 
the  vessel.  The  accident  was,  in  this  case, 
a  lucky  one.  Having  stolen  several  kisses  at 
sea,  and  having  been  discovered  (in  every  case) 
either  by  the  steward  or  his  wife,  Launce  felt  no 
difficulty  in  prefacing  his  request  to  be  allowed 
the  use  of  the  room  by  the  plainest  allusion  to 
his  relations  with  Natalie.  He  could  count  on 
the  silence  of  the  sjmipathizing  authorities  in 
this  region  of  the  vessel,  having  wisely  secured 
them  as  accomplices  by  the  usual  persuasion  of 
the  pecuniary  sort.  Of  the  two,  however,  the 
stewardess,  as  a  woman,  was  the  more  likely  to 
lend  a  ready  ear  to  Launce 's  entreaties  in  his 
present  emergency.  After  a  faint  show  of  resist- 
ance, she  consented,  not  only  to  leave  the  room, 
but  to  keep  her  husband  out  of  it,  on  the  under- 
standing that  it  was  not  to  be  occupied  for  more 
than  ten  minues.  Launce  made  the  signal  to 
Natalie  at  one  door,  while  the  stewardess  went 
out  by  the  other.     In  a  moment  more  the  lovers 


MISS    OR    MRS.?  391 

were  united  in  a  private  room.  Is  it  necessary 
to  say  in  what  lauguage  the  proceedings  were 
opened?  Surely  not!  There  is  an  inarticulate 
language  of  the  lips  in  use  on  these  occasions  in 
which  we  are  all  proficient,  though  we  some- 
times forget  it  in  later  life.  Natalie  seated  her- 
self on  a  locker.  The  tea,  sugar,  and  spices 
were  at  her  back,  a  side  of  bacon  swung  over 
her  head,  and  a  net  full  of  lemons  dangled  before 
her  face.  It  might  not  be  roomy,  but  it  was  snug 
and  comfortable. 

"Suppose  they  call  for  the  steward?"  she  sug- 
gested.    ("Don't,  Launce!") 

"Never  mind.  We  shall  be  safe  enough  if 
they  do.  The  steward  has  only  to  show  himself 
on  deck,  and  they  will  suspect  nothing. ' ' 

"Do  be  quiet,  Launce!  I  have  got  dreadful 
news  to  tell  you.  And,  besides,  my  aunt  will 
expect  to  see  me  with  my  braid  sewn  on  again." 

She  had  brought  her  needle  and  thread  with 
her.  Whipping  up  the  skirt  of  her  dress  on  her 
knee,  she  bent  forward  over  it,  and  set  herself 
industriously  to  the  repair  of  the  torn  trimming. 
In  this  position  her  lithe  figure  showed  charm- 
ingly its  firm  yet  easy  line.  The  needle,  in  her 
dexterous  brown  fingers,  flew  through  its  work. 
The  locker  was  a  broad  one ;  Launce  was  able  to 
seat  himself  partially  behind  her.  In  this  posi- 
tion who  could  Irave  resisted  the  temptation  to 
lift  up  her  great  knot  of  broadly- plaited  black 
hair,  and  to  let  the  warm,  dusky  nape  of  her 
neck  disclose  itself  to  view?  Who,  looking  at 
it,  could  fail  to  revile  the  senseless  modern  fasb- 


392  WORKS    OF    WTT.KIE    COLLINS. 

ion  of  dressing  the  hair,  which  hides  the  double 
beauty  of  form  and  color  that  nestles  at  the  back 
of  a  woman's  neck?  From  time  to  time,  as  the 
interview  proceeded,  Launce's  lips  emphasized 
the  more  important  words  occurring  in  his  share 
of  the  conversation  on  the  soft,  fragrant  skin 
which  the  lifted  hair  let  him  see  at  intervals. 
In  Launce's  place,  sir,  you  would  have  done 
it  too. 

"Now,  Natalie,  what  is  the  news?" 

"He  has  spoken  to  papa,  Launce." 

"Richard  Turlington?" 

"Yes." 

"D— nhim!" 

Natalie  started.  A  curse  addressed  to  the 
back  of  your  neck,  instantly  followed  by  a  bless- 
ing in  the  shape  of  a  kiss,  is  a  little  trying  when 
you  are  not  prepared  for  it. 

"Don't  do  that  again,  Launce!  It  was  while 
you  were  on  deck  smoking,  and  when  1  was  sup- 
posed to  be  fast  asleep.  I  opened  the  ventilator 
in  my  cabin  door,  dear,  and  I  heard  every  word 
they  said.  He  waited  till  my  aunt  was  out  of 
the  way,  and  he  had  got  papa  all  to  himself,  and 
then  he  began  it  in  that  horrible,  downright 
voice  of  his — 'Graybrooke!  how  much  longer 
am  I  to  wait?'  " 

"Did  he  say  that?" 

"No  more  swearing,  Launce!  Those  were 
the  words.  Papa  didn't  understand  them.  He 
onlj^  said  (poor  dear!) — 'Bless  my  soul,  Richard, 
what  do  you  want?'  Richard  soon  explained 
himself.     'Who  could  he  be  waiting  for — but 


MISS    OR    MRS.?  39;j 

Me?'  Papa  said  something  about  my  being  so 
young.  Richard  stopped  his  mouth  directly. 
'Girls  were  like  fruit;  some  ripened  soon,  and 
some  ripened  late.  Some  were  women  at  twenty, 
and  some  were  women  at  sixteen.  It  was  im- 
possible to  look  at  me,  and  not  see  that  I  was 
like  a  new  being  after  my  two  mouths  at  sea,' 
and  so  on  and  so  on.  Papa  behaved  like  an 
angel.  He  still  tried  to  put  it  off.  'Plenty  of 
time,  Richard,  plenty  of  time.'  'Plenty  of  time 
for  her'  (was  the  wretch's  answer  to  that) ;  'but 
not  for  me.  Think  of  all  I  have  to  offer  her'  (as 
if  I  cared  far  his  money!);  'think  how  long  I 
have  looked  upon  her  as  growing  up  to  be  my 
wife'  (growing  up  for  him — monstrous!),  'and 
don't  keep  me  in  a  state  of  uncertainty,  which 
it  gets  harder  and  harder  for  a  man  in  my  posi- 
tion to  endure!'  He  was  really  quite  eloquent. 
His  voice  trembled.  There  is  no  doubt,  dear, 
that  he  is  very,  very  fond  of  me." 

"And  you  feel  flattered  by  it,  of  course?" 

"Don't  talk  nonsense.  I  feel  a  little  fright- 
ened at  it,  I  can  tell  you. ' ' 

"Frightened?  Did  ^ow  notice  him  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"I?     When?" 

"When  your  father  was  telling  that  story 
about  the  man  overboard." 

"No.     What  did  he  do?     Tell  me,  Launce." 

"I'll  tell  you  directly.  How  did  it  all  end  last 
night?  Did  your  father  make  any  sort  of  prom- 
ise?" 

"You  know  Richard's  way;  Richard  left  him 


394  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

no  other  choice.     Papa  had  to  promise  before  he 
was  allowed  to  go  to  bed." 

"To  let  Turlington  marry  you?" 
"Yes;  the  week  after  iny  next  birthday." 
"The  week  after  next  Christmas-day?" 
"Yes.     Papa  is  to  speak  to  me  as  soon  as  we 
are  at  home  again,  and  my  married  life  is  to  be- 
gin with  the  New  Year." 

"Are  you  in  earnest,  Natalie?  Do  you  really 
mean  to  say  it  has  gone  as  far  as  that?" 

"They  have  settled  everything.  The  splendid 
establishment  we  are  to  set  up,  the  great  income 
we  are  to  have.  I  heard  papa  tell  Richard  that 
half  his  fortune  should  go  to  me  on  my  wedding- 
day.  It  was  sickening  to  hear  how  much  they 
made  of  Money,  and  how  little  they  thought  of 
Love.     What  am  I  to  do,  Launce?" 

"That's  easil}^  answered,  my  darling.  In  the 
first  place,  you  are  to  make  up  your  mind  not  to 
marry  Richard  Turlington—" 

"Do  talk  reasonably.  You  know  I  have  done 
all  I  could.  I  have  told  papa  that  I  can  think  of 
Richard  as  a  friend,  but  not  as  a  husband.  He 
only  laughs  at  me,  and  says,  'Wait  a  little,  and 
you  will  alter  your  opinion,  my  dear. '  You  see 
Richard  is  everything  to  him ;  Richard  has  al- 
ways managed  his  affairs,  and  has  saved  him 
from  losing  by  bad  speculations;  Richard  has 
known  me  from  the  time  when  I  was  a  child ; 
Richard  has  a  splendid  business,  and  quantities 
of  money.  Papa  can't  even  imagine  that  I  can 
resist  Richard.  I  have  tried  my  aunt;  I  have 
told  her  he  is  too  old  for  me.     All  she  says  is, 


MISS    OR    MRS.?  395 

'  Look  at  your  father ;  he  was  much  older  than 
your  mother,  and  what  a  happy  marriage  theirs 
was.'  Even  if  I  said  in  so  many  words,  'I 
won't  marry  Richard,'  what  good  would  it  do 
to  us  f  Papa  is  the  best  and-dearest  old  man  in 
the  world ;  but  oh,  he  is  so  fond  of  money !  He 
believes  in  nothing  else.  He  would  be  furious — 
yes,  kind  as  he  is,  he  would  be  furious — if  I  even 
hinted  that  I  was  fond  of  you.  Any  man  who 
proposed  to  marry  me — if  he  couldn't  match  the 
fortune  that  I  should  bring  him  by  a  fortune  of 
his  own — would  be  a  luna,tic  in  papa's  eyes.  He 
wouldn't  think  it  necessary  to  answer  him;  he 
would  ring  the  bell,  and  have  him  shown  out  of 
the  house.  I  am  exaggerating  nothing,  Launce ; 
you  know  I  am  speaking  the  truth.  There  is  no 
hope  in  the  future — that  I  can  see — for  either  of 
us." 

"Have  you  done,  Natalie?  I  have  something 
to  say  on  my  side  if  you  have." 

"What  is  it?" 

"If  things  go  on  as  they  are  going  on  now, 
shall  I  tell  you  how  it  will  end?  It  will  end  in 
your  being  Turlington's  wife." 

"Never!" 

"So  you  say  now;  but  you  don't  know  what 
may  happen  between  this  and  Christmas-day. 
Natalie,  there  is  only  one  way  of  making  sure 
that  you  will  never  marry  Richard.   Marry  me. ' ' 

"Without  papa's  consent?" 

"Without  saying  a  word  to  anybody  till  it's 
done." 

"Oh,  Launce!  Launce!" 


396  WORKS    OF    WILKIE     COLLINS. 

' '  My  darling,  every  word  you  have  said  proves 
there  is  no  other  way.  Think  of  it,  Natalie, 
think  of  it." 

There  was  a  pause.  Natalie  dropped  her  needle 
and  thread,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  "If 
my  poor  mother  was  only  alive,"  she  said;  "if  I 
only  had  an  elder  sister  to  advise  me,  and  to  take 
my  part." 

She  was  evidently  hesitating.  Launce  took 
a  man's  advantage  of  her  indecision.  He  pressed 
her  without  mercy. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  he  whispered,  with  his 
lips  close  to  her  ear. 

"You  know  I  do,  dearly." 

"Put  it  out  of  Richard's  power  to  part  us, 
Natalie." 

"Partus?  We  are  cousins :  we  have  known 
each  other  since  we  were  both  children.  Even 
if  he  proposed  parting  us,  papa  wouldn't  allow 
it." 

"Mark  my  words,  he  will  propose  it.  As  for 
your  father,  Richard  has  only  to  lift  his  finger 
and  your  father  obeys  him.  My  love,  the  hap- 
piness of  both  our  lives  is  at  stake."  He  wound 
his  arm  round  her,  and  gently  drew  her  head 
back  on  his  bosom,  "Other  girls  have  done  it, 
darling,"  he  pleaded,  "why  shouldn't  you?" 

The  effort  to  answer  him  was  too  much  for 
her.  She  gave  it  up.  A  low  sigh  fluttered 
through  her  lips.  She  nestled  closer  to  him,  and 
faintly  closed  her  eyes.  The  next  instant  she 
started  up,  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  and 
looked  at  the  sky-light.     Richard  Turlington's 


MISS    OR    MRS.?  307 

voice  was  suddenly  audible  on  deck  exactly  above 
them. 

"  Graj'^brooke,  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  you 
about  Launcelot  Linzie." 

Natalie's  first  impulse  was  to  fly  to  the  door. 
Hearing  Launce's  name  on  Richard's  lips,  she 
checked  herself.  Something  in  Richard's  tone 
roused  in  her  the  curiosity  which  suspends 
fear.  She  waited,  with  her  hand  in  Launce's 
hand. 

"If  you  remember,"  the  brassy  voice  went  on, 
"I  doubted  the  wisdom  of  taking  him  with  us 
on  this  cruise.  You  didn't  agree  with  me,  and, 
at  your  express  request,  I  gave  way.  I  did 
wrong.  Launcelot  Linzie  is  a  very  presuming 
young  man." 

Sir  Joseph's  answer  was  accompanied  by  Sir 
Joseph's  mellow  laugh. 

' '  My  dear  Richard !  Surely  you  are  a  little 
hard  on  Launce?" 

"You  are  not  an  observant  man,  Graybrooke. 
I  am.  I  see  signs  of  his  presuming  with  all  of 
us,  and  especially  with  Natalie.  T  don't  like  the 
manner  in  which  he  speaks  to  her  and  looks  at 
her.  He  is  unduly  familiar ;  he  is  insolently 
confidential.  There  must  be  a  stop  put  to  it.  In 
my  position,  my  feelings  ought  to  be  regarded. 
I  request  you  to  check  the  intimacy  when  we  get 
on  shore." 

Sir  Joseph's  next  words  were  spoken  more 
seriously.     He  expressed  his  surprise. 

"My  dear  Richard,  they  are  cousins,  they  have 
been  playmates  from  childhood.     How  can  j^ou 


398  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

think  of  attaching  the  slightest  importance  to 
anything  that  is  said  or  done  by  poor  Launce?" 

There  was  a  good-humored  contempt  in  Sir 
Joseph's  reference  to  "poor  Launce"  which 
jarred  on  his  daughter.  He  might  almost  have 
been  alluding  to  some  harmless  domestic  animal. 
Natalie's  color  deepened.  Her  hand  pressed 
Launce's  hand  gently. 

Turlington  still  persisted. 

"I  must  once  more  request — seriously  request 
— that  you  will  check  this  growing  intimacy.  I 
don't  object  to  your  asking  him  to  the  house  when 
you  ask  other  friends.  I  only  wish  you  (and  ex- 
pect you)  to  stop  his  'dropping  in,'  as  it  is  called, 
at  auy  hour  of  the  day  or  evening  when  he  may 
have  nothing  to  do.  Is  that  understood  between 
us?" 

"If  you  make  a  point  of  it,  Richard,  of  course 
it's  understood  between  us." 

Launce  looked  at  Natalie,  as  weak  Sir  Joseph 
consented  in  those  words. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  he  whispered. 

Natalie  hung  her  head  in  silence.  There  was 
a  pause  in  the  conversation  on  deck.  The  two 
gentlemen  walked  away  slowly  toward  the  for- 
ward part  of  the  vessel. 

Launce  pursued  his  advantage. 

"Your  father  leaves  us  no  alternative,"  he 
said.  "The  door  will  be  closed  against  me  as 
soon  as  we  get  on  shore.  If  I  lose  you,  Natalie, 
I  don't  care  what  becomes  of  me.  My  profession 
may  go  to  the  devil,  I  have  nothing  left  worth 
living  for." 


MISS  OR   MRS.?  399 

"Hush!  hush!  don't  talk  i a  that  way!" 

Launce  tried  the  soothing  influence  of  persua- 
sion once  more. 

' '  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  people  in  our  sit- 
uation have  married  privately — and  have  been 
forgiven  afterward,"  he  went  on.  "I  won't 
ask  you  to  do  anything  in  a  hurry.  I  will  be 
guided  entirely  by  your  wishes.  All  I  want  to 
quiet  my  mind  is  to  know  that  you  are  mine. 
Do,  do,  do  make  me  feel  sure  that  Richard  Tur- 
lington can't  take  you  away  from  me." 

"Don't  press  me,  Launce."  She  dropped  on 
the  locker.  "See!"  she  said.  "It  makes  me 
tremble  only  to  think  of  it!" 

"Who  are  you  afraid  of,  darling?  Not  your 
father,  surely?" 

"Poor  papa!  I  wonder  whether  he  would  be 
hard  on  me  for  the  first  time  in  his  life?"  She 
stopped;  her  moistening  eyes  looked  up  implor- 
ingly in  Launce's  face.  "Don't  press  me!"  she 
repeated  faintly.  "You  know  it's  wrong.  We 
should  have  to  confess  it — and  then  what  would 
happen?"  She  paused  again.  Her  eyes  wan- 
dered nervously  to  the  deck.  Her  voice  dropped 
to  its  lowest  tones.  "Think  of  Richard!"  she 
said,  and  shuddered  at  the  terrors  which  that 
name  conjured  up.  Before  it  was  possible  to  say 
a  quieting  word  to  her,  she  was  again  on  her 
feet.  Richard's  name  had  suddenly  recalled  to 
her  memory  Launce's  mysterious  allusion,  at  the 
outset  of  the  interview,  to  the  owner  of  the 
yacht.  "What  was  that  you  said  about  Richard 
just   now?"  she  asked.     "You  saw  something 


400  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

(or  heard  something)  strange  while  papa  was 
telling  his  story.     What  was  it?" 

"I  noticed  Richard's  face,  Natalie,  when  your 
father  told  us  that  the  man  overboard  was  not 
one  of  the  pilot-boat's  crew.  He  turned  ghastly 
pale.     He  looked  guilty — " 

"Guilty?     Of  what?" 

"He  was  present — I  am  certain  of  it — when 
the  sailor  was  thrown  into  the  sea.  For  all  I 
know,  he  may  have  been  the  man  who  did  it. ' ' 

Natalie  started  back  in  horror. 

"Oh,  Launce!  Launce!  that  is  too  bad.  You 
may  not  like  Richard — you  may  treat  Richard 
as  your  enemy.  But  to  say  such  a  horrible  thing 
of  him  as  that —  It's  not  generous.  It's  not 
like  you.'''' 

"If  you  had  seen  him,  you  would  have  said  it 
too.  I  mean  to  make  inquiries — in  your  father's 
interests  as  well  as  in  ours.  My  brother  knows 
one  of  the  Commissioners  of  Police,  and  my 
brother  can  get  it  done  for  me.  Turlington  has 
not  always  been  in  the  Levant  trade — I  know 
that  already." 

"For  shame,  Launce!  for  shame!" 

The  footsteps  on  deck  were  audible  coming 
back.  Natalie  sprang  to  the  door  leading  into 
the  cabin.  Launce  stopped  her,  as  she  laid  her 
hand  on  the  lock.  The  footsteps  went  straight 
on  toward  the  stern  of  the  vessel.  Launce 
clasped  both  arms  round  her.  Natalie  gave 
way. 

"Don't  drive  me  to  despair!"  hesaid.  "This 
is  my  last  opportunity.     I  don't  ask  j^ou  to  say 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  401 

at  once  that  j^'ou  will  many  nie,  I  011I3"  ask  you 
to  think  of  it.  My  darling !  my  angel !  will  you 
think  of  it?" 

As  he  put  the  question,  they  might  have  heard 
(if  they  had  not  been  too  completely  engrossed 
in  each  other  to  listen)  the  footsteps  returning — 
one  pair  of  footsteps  only  this  time.  Natalie's 
prolonged  absence  had  begun  to  surprise  her 
aunt,  and  had  roused  a  certain  vague  distrust  in 
Richard's  mind.  He  walked  back  again  along 
the  deck  by  himself.  He  looked  absently  in  the 
main  cabin  as  he  passed  it.  The  store-room  sky- 
light came  next.  In  his  present  frame  of  mind, 
would  he  look  absently  into  the  store-room  too? 

"Let  me  go!"  said  Natalie. 

Launce  only  answered,  "Say  yes,"  and  held 
her  as  if  he  would  never  let  her  go  again. 

At  the  same  moment  Miss  Lavinia's  voice  rose 
shrill  from  the  deck  calling  for  Natalie.  There 
was  but  one  way  of  getting  free  from  him.  She 
said,  "I'll  think  of  it."  Upon  that,  he  kissed 
her  and  let  her  go. 

The  door  had  barely  closed  on  her  when  the 
lowering  face  of  Richard  Turlington  appeared 
on  a  level  with  the  side  of  the  sky-light,  looking 
down  into  the  store-room  at  Launce. 

' '  Halloo ! "  he  called  out  roughl5^  ' '  What  are 
you  doing  in  the  steward's  room?" 

Launce  took  up  a  box  of  matches  on  the 
dresser.  "I'm  getting  a  light,"  he  answered 
readily. 

"I  allow  nobody  below,  forward  of  the  main 
cabin,  without  my  leav'^e.     The  steward  has  per- 


402  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

mitted  a  breach  of  discipline  on  board  my  vessel. 
The  steward  will  leave  my  service." 

"The  steward  is  not  to  blame." 

"I  am  the  judge  of  that.     Not  you." 

Launce  opened  his  lips  to  reply.  An  outbreak 
between  the  two  men  appeared  to  be  inevitable, 
when  the  sailing-master  of  the  yacht  joined  his 
employer  on  deck,  and  directed  Turlington's 
attention  to  a  question  which  is  never  to  be 
trifled  with  at  sea,  the  question  of  wind  and 
tide. 

The  yacht  was  then  in  the  Bristol  Channel,  at 
the  entrance  to  Bideford  Bay.  The  breeze,  fast 
freshening,  was  also  fast  changing  the  direction 
from  which  it  blew.  The  favorable  tide  had 
barely  three  hours  more  to  run. 

"The  wind's  shifting,  sir,"  said  the  sailing- 
master.  "I'm  afraid  we  shan't  get  round  the 
point  this  tide,  unless  we  lay  her  off  on  the  other 
tack." 

Turlington  shook  his  head. 

"There  are  letters  waiting  for  me  at  Bideford," 
he  said.  "We  have  lost  two  days  in  the  calm. 
I  must  send  ashore  to  the  post-office,  whether  we 
lose  the  tide  or  not." 

The  vessel  held  on  her  course.  Off  the  port  of 
Bideford,  the  boat  was  sent  ashore  to  the  post- 
office,  the  yacht  standing  off  and  on,  waiting  the 
appearance  of  the  letters.  In  the  shortest  time 
in  which  it  was  possible  to  bring  them  on  board 
the  letters  were  in  Turlington's  hands. 

The  men  were  hauling  the  boat  up  to  the  dav- 
its, the  yacht  was  already  heading  off  from  the 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  403 

land,  when   Turlington   startled  everybody   by 
one  peremptory  word — "Stop!" 

He  had  thrust  all  his  letters  but  one  into  the 
pocket  of  his  sailing  jacket,  without  reading 
them.  The  one  letter  which  he  had  opened  he 
held  in  his  closed  hand.  Rage  was  in  his  staring 
eyes,  consternation  was  on  his  pale  lips. 

"Lower  the  boat!"  he  shouted;  "I  must  get 
to  London  to-night."  He  stopped  Sir  Joseph, 
approaching  him  with  opened  mouth.  "There's 
no  time  for  questions  and  answers.  I  must  get 
back."  He  swung  himself  over  the  side  of  the 
yacht,  and  addressed  the  sailing-master  from 
the  boat.  "Save  the  tide  if  you  can ;  if  you  can't, 
put  them  ashore  to-morrow  at  Minehead  or 
Watchet — wherever  they  like."  He  beckoned 
to  Sir  Joseph  to  lean  over  the  bulwark,  and  hear 
something  he  had  to  say  in  private.  "Remember 
what  I  told  you  about  Launcelot  Linzie!"  he 
whispered  fiercely.  His  parting  look  was  for 
Natalie.  He  spoke  to  her  with  a  strong  con- 
straint on  himself,  as  gently  as  he  could.  "Don't 
be  alarmed;  I  shall  see  you  in  London."  He 
seated  himself  in  the  boat  and  took  the  tiller. 
The  last  words  they  heard  him  say  were  words 
urging  the  men  at  the  oars  to  lose  no  time.  He 
was  invariably  brutal  with  the  men.  ' '  Pull,  you 
lazy  beggars!"  he  exclaimed,  with  an  oath. 
"Pull  for  your  lives!" 


404       -       WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

THIRD   SCENE. 

THE   MONEY   MARKET. 

Let  us  be  serious. — Business! 

The  new  scene  plunges  us  head  foremost  into 
the  affairs  of  the  Levant  trading- house  of  Pizzi- 
tuti,  Turlington  &  Branca.  What  on  earth  do 
we  know  abovit  the  Levant  Trade?  Courage! 
If  we  have  ever  known  what  it  is  to  want  money 
we  are  perfectly  familiar  with  the  subject  at 
starting.  The  Levant  Trade  does  occasionally 
get  into  difficulties. — Turlington  wanted  money. 

The  letter  which  had  been  handed  to  him  on 
board  the  yacht  was  from  his  third  partner,  Mr. 
Branca,  and  was  thus  expressed: 

"A  crisis  in  the  trade.  All  right,  so  far — ex- 
cept our  business  with  the  small  foreign  firms. 
Bills  to  meet  from  those  quarters,  (say)  forty 
thousand  pounds — and,  I  fear,  no  remittances  to 
cover  them.  Particulars  stated  in  another  letter 
addressed  to  you  at  Post-office,  Ilfracombe.  I 
am  quite  broken  down  with  anxiety,  and  con- 
fined to  my  bed.  Pizzituti  is  still  detained  at 
Smyrna.     Come  back  at  once, " 

The  same  evening  Turlington  was  at  his  office 
in  Austin  Friars,  investigating  the  state  of 
affairs,  with  his  head  clerk  to  help  him. 

Stated  briefly,  the  business  of  the  firm  was 
of  the  widely  miscellaneous  sort.  They  plied 
a  brisk  trade  in  a  vast  variety  of  commodities. 
Nothing  came  amiss  to  them,  from  Manchester 


MISS    OR    MRS.?  405 

cotton  manufactures  to  Smyrna  tigs.  Tlioy  had 
branch  houses  at  Alexandria  and  Odessa,  and 
correspondents  here,  there,  and  everj'^where, 
along  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  and  in 
the  ports  of  the  East.  These  correspondents  were 
the  persons  alluded  to  in  Mr.  Branca's  letter  as 
"small  foreign  firms;"  and  they  had  produced 
the  serious  financial  crisis  in  the  affairs  of  the 
great  house  in  Austin  Friars,  which  had  hurried 
Turlington  up  to  Loudon. 

Every  one  of  these  minor  firms  claimed  and 
received  the  privilege  of  drawing  bills  on  Pizzi- 
tuti,  Turlington  &  Branca  for  amounts  varying 
from  four  to  six  thousand  pounds — on  no  better 
security  than  a  verbal  understanding  that  the 
money  to  pay  the  bills  should  be  forwarded  be- 
fore they  fell  due.  Competition,  it  is  needless 
to  say,  was  at  the  bottom  of  this  insanely  reck- 
less system  of  trading.  The  native  firms  laid  it 
down  as  a  rule  that  they  would  decline  to  trans- 
act business  with  any  house  in  the  trade  which 
refused  to  grant  them  their  privilege.  In  the 
case  of  Turlington's  house,  the  foreign  merchants 
had  drawn  their  bills  on  him  for  sums  large  in 
the  aggregate,  if  not  large  in  themselves ;  had 
long  since  turned  those  bills  into  cash  in  their 
own  markets,  for  their  own  necessities ;  and  had 
now  left  the  money  which  their  paper  represented 
to  be  paid  by  their  London  correspondents  as  it 
fell  due.  In  some  instances,  they  had  sent  noth- 
ing but  promises  and  excuses.  In  others,  they 
had  forwarded  drafts  on  firms  which  had  failed 
already,  or  which  were  about  to  fail,  in  the  crisis. 


406  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

After  first  exhausting  his  resources  in  ready 
money,  Mr.  Branca  had  provided  for  the  more 
pressing  necessities  by  pledging  the  credit  of 
the  house,  so  far  as  he  could  pledge  it  without 
exciting  suspicion  of  the  truth.  This  done, 
there  were  actually  left,  between  that  time  and 
Christmas,  liabilities  to  be  met  to  the  extent 
of  forty  thousand  pounds,  without  a  farthing  in 
hand  to  pay  that  formidable  debt. 

After  working  through  the  night,  this  was  the 
conclusion  at  which  Richard  Turlington  arrived, 
when  the  rising  sun  looked  in  at  him  through 
the  windows  of  his  private  room. 

The  whole  force  of  the  blow  had  fallen  on  him. 
The  share  of  his  partners  in  the  business  was  of 
the  most  trifling  nature.  The  capital  was  his, 
the  risk  was  his.  Personally  and  priva,tely,  he 
had  to  find  the  money,  or  to  confront  the  one 
other  alternative— ruin. 

How  was  the  money  to  be  found? 

With  his  position  in  the  City,  he  had  only  to 
go  to  the  famous  money-lending  and  discounting 
house  of  Bulpit  Brothers — reported  to  "turn 
over"  millions  in  their  business  every  year — and 
to  supplj^  himself  at  once  with  the  necessary 
funds.  Forty  thousand  pounds  was  a  trifling 
transaction  to  Bulpit  Brothers. 

Having  got  the  money,  how,  in  the  present 
state  of  his  trade,  was  the  loan  to  be  paid  back? 

His  thoughts  reverted  to  his  marriage  with 
Natalie. 

"Curious!"  he  said  to  himself,  recalling  his 
conversation  with  Sir  Joseph  on  board  the  yacht. 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  407 

"Graybrooketoldme  he  would  give  his  daughter 
half  his  fortune  ou  her  marriage.  Half  Gray- 
brooke's  fortune  happens  to  be  just  forty  thou- 
sand pounds!"  He  took  a  turn  in  the  room. 
No!  It  was  impossible  to  apply  to  Sir  Joseph. 
Once  shake  Sir  Joseph's  conviction  of  his  com- 
mercial solidity,  and  the  marriage  would  be  cer- 
tainly deferred — if  not  absolutely  broken  off.  Sir 
Joseph's  fortune  could  be  made  available,  in  the 
present  emergency,  in  but  one  way — he  might 
use  it  to  repay  his  debt.  He  had  only  to  make 
the  date  at  which  the  loan  expired  coincide  with 
the  date  of  his  marriage,  and  there  was  his 
father-in-law's  money  at  his  disposal,  or  at  his 
wife's  disposal — which  meant  the  same  thing. 
"It's  well  I  pressed  Graybrooke  about  the  mar- 
riage when  I  did!"  he  thought.  "I  can  borrow 
the  money  at  a  short  date.  In  three  months  from 
this  Natalie  will  be  my  wife." 

He  drove  to  his  club  to  get  breakfast,  with  his 
mind  cleared,  for  the  time  being,  of  all  its  anxie- 
ties but  one. 

Knowing  where  he  could  procure  the  loan,  he 
was  by  no  means  equally  sure  of  being  able  to 
find  the  security  on  which  he  could  borrow  the 
money.  Living  up  to  his  income;  having  no 
expectations  from  any  living  creature;  possess- 
ing in  landed  property  only  some  thirty  or  forty 
acres  in  Somersetshire,  with  a  quaint  little  dwell- 
ing, half  farm-house,  half -cottage,  attached — he 
was  incapable  of  providing  the  needful  security 
from  his  own  personal  resources.  To  appeal  to 
vv^ealthy  friends  in  the  City  would  be  to  let  those 
Vol.  4  14— 


408  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

friends  into  the  secret  of  his  embarrassments, 
and  to  put  his  credit  in  peril.  He  finished  his 
breakfast,  and  went  back  to  Austin  Friars — fail- 
ing eiitirel}^,  so  far,  to  see  how  he  was  to  remove 
the  last  obstacle  now  left  in  his  wa}'". 

The  doors  were  open  to  the  public ;  business 
had  begun.  He  had  not  been  ten  minutes  in  his 
room  before  the  shipping-clerk  knocked  at  the 
door  and  interrupted  him,  still  absorbed  in  his 
own  anxious  thoughts. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  irritably. 

"Duplicate  Bills  of  Lading,  sir,"  answered 
the  clerk,  placing  the  documents  on  his  master's 
table. 

Found !  There  was  the  security  on  his  writ- 
ing-desk, staring  him  in  the  face!  He  dismissed 
the  clerk  and  examined  the  papers. 

They  contained  an  account  of  goods  shipped 
to  the  London  house  on  board  vessels  sailing 
from  Smyrna  and  Odessa,  and  they  were  signed 
by  the  masters  of  the  ships,  who  thereby  ac- 
knowledged the  receipt  of  the  goods,  and  under- 
took to  deliver  them  safely  to  the  persons  own- 
ing them,  as  directed.  First  copies  of  these 
papers  had  already  been  placed  in  the  possession 
of  the  London  house.  The  duplicates  had  now 
followed,  in  case  of  accident.  Richard  Turling- 
ton instantly  determined  to  make  the  duplicates 
serve  as  his  security,  keeping  the  first  copies 
privately  under  lock  and  key,  to  be  used  in  ob- 
taining possession  of  the  goods  at  the  customary 
time.  The  fraud  was  a  fraud  in  appearance  only. 
The   security  was  a  pure  formality.     His  mar- 


MISS   OR   MRS.  ?  40!) 

riage  would  supply  him  with  the  funds  needed 
for  repaying  the  money,  and  the  profits  of  his 
business  would  provide,  in  course  of  time,  for 
restoring  the  dowry  of  his  wife.  It  was  simi:)ly 
a  question  of  preserving  his  credit  by  means 
which  were  legitimately  at  his  disposal.  Within 
the  lax  limits  of  mercantile  morality,  Richard 
Turlington  had  a  conscience.  He  put  on  his  hat 
and  tjok  his  false  security  to  the  money-lenders, 
without  feeling  at  all  lowered  in  his  own  estima- 
tion as  an  honest  man. 

Bulpit  Brothers,  long  desirous  of  having  such 
a  name  as  his  on  their  books,  received  him  with 
open  arms.  The  security  (covering  the  amount 
borrowed)  was  accepted  as  a  matter  of  course. 
The  money  was  lent,  for  three  months,  with  a 
stroke  of  the  pen.  Turlington  stepped  out  again 
into  the  street,  and  confronted  the  City*  of  Lon- 
don in  the  character  of  the  noblest  work  of  mer- 
cantile creation — a  solvent  man.* 

The  Fallen  Angel,  walking  invisibly  behind, 
in  Richard's  shadow,  flapped  his  crippled  wings 
in  triumph.  From  that  moment  the  Fallen 
Ana-el  had  got  him. 


*  It  may  not  be  amiss  to  remind  the  incredulous  reader 
that  a  famous  firm  in  the  City  accepted  precisely  the 
same  security  as  that  here  accepted  by  Bulpit  Brothers, 
with  the  same  sublime  indifference  to  troubling  them- 
selves by  making  any  inquiry  about  it. 


410  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

FOURTH   SCENE. 

MUSWELL   HILL. 

The  next  day  Turlington  drove  to  the  suburbs, 
on  the  chance  of  finding  the  Graybrookes  at 
home  again.  Sir  Joseph  disliked  London,  and 
could  not  prevail  on  himself  to  live  any  nearer 
to  the  metropolis  than  Muswell  Hill.  When 
Natalie  wanted  a  change,  and  languished  for 
balls,  theaters,  flower-shows,  and  the  like,  she 
had  a  room  especially  reserved  for  her  in  the 
house  of  Sir  Joseph's  married  sister,  Mrs.  San- 
croft,  living  in  that  central  deep  of  the  fashion- 
able whirlpool  known  among  mortals  as  Berkeley 
Square. 

On  his  way  through  tlie  streets,  Turlington 
encountered  a  plain  proof  that  the  Graybrookes 
must  have  returned.  He  was  passed  by  Launce, 
driving,  in  company  with  a  gentleman,  in  a  cab. 
The  gentleman  was  Launce's  brother,  and  the 
two  were  on  their  way  to  the  Commissioners  of 
Police  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements  for 
instituting  an  inquiry  into  Turlington's  early 
life. 

Arrived  at  the  gate  of  the  villa,  the  informa- 
tion received  only  partially  fulfilled  the  visitor's 
expectations.  The  family  had  returned  on  the 
previous  evening.  Sir  Joseph  and  his  sister  were 
at  home,  but  Natalie  was  away  again  already. 
She  had  driven  into  town  to  lunch  with  her  aunt. 
Turlinarton  went  into  the  house. 


MISS    OR    MRS.?  411 

"Have  you  lost  any  money?"  Those  were 
the  first  words  uttered  by  Sir  Joseph  when  he 
and  Richard  met  again,  after  the  parting  on 
board  the  yacht. 

"Not  a  farthing.  I  might  have  lost  seriously, 
if  I  had  not  got  back  in  time  to  set  things 
straight.  Stupidity  on  the  part  of  my  people 
left  in  charge — nothing  more.  It's  all  right 
now." 

Sir  Joseph  lifted  his  eyes,  with  heartfelt  de- 
votion, to  the  ceiling.  "Thank  God,  Richard!" 
he  said,  in  tones  of  the  deepest  feeling.  He 
rang  the  bell.  "Tell  Miss  Graybrooke  Mr.  Tur- 
lington is  here."  He  turned  again  to  Richard. 
"Lavinia  is  like  me — Lavinia  has  been  so  anx- 
ious about  you.  We  have  both  of  us  passed  a 
sleepless  night."  Miss  Lavinia  came  in.  Sir 
Joseph  hurried  to  meet  her,  and  took  her  affec- 
tionately by  both  hands.  "My  dear!  the  best  of 
all  good  news,  Richard  has  not  lost  a  farthing." 
Miss  Lavinia  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  ceiling  with 
heartfelt  devotion,  and  said,  "Thank  God,  Rich- 
ard!"— like  the  echo  of  her  brother's  voice;  a 
little  late,  perhaps,  for  its  reputation  as  an  echo, 
but  accurate  to  half  a  note  in  its  perfect  repeti- 
tion of  sound. 

Turlington  asked  the  question  which  it  had 
been  his  one  object  to  put  in  paying  his  visit  to 
Muswell  Hill. 

"Have  you  spoken  to  Natalie?" 

"This  morning,"  replied  Sir  Joseph.  "An 
opportunity  offered  itself  after  breakfast.  I  took 
advantage  of  it,  Richard — you  shall  hear  how. ' ' 


4:12  WORKS     OF    WILKIE     COLLINS. 

He  settled  himself  in  his  chair  for  one  of  his 
interminable  stories ;  he  began  his  opening  sen- 
tence— and  stopped,  struck  dumb  at  the  first 
word.  There  was  an  unexpected  obstacle  in  the 
way — his  sister  was  not  attending  to  him;  his 
sister  had  silenced  him  at  starting.  The  story 
touching,  this  time,  on  the  question  of  marriage, 
Miss  Lavinialiad  her  woman's  interest  in  seeing 
full  justice  done  to  the  subject.  She  seized  on 
her  brother's  narrative  as  on  property  in  her  own 
right. 

"Joseph  should  have  told  you,"  she  began, 
addressing  herself  to  Turlington,  "that  our  dear 
girl  was  unusually  depressed  in  spirits  this  morn- 
ing. Quite  in  the  right  frame  of  mind  for  a  little 
serious  talk  about  her  future  life.  She  ate  nothing 
at  breakfast,  poor  child,  but  a  morsel  of  dry  toast. ' ' 

"And  marmalade,"  said  Sir  Joseph,  striking 
in  at  the  first  opportunity.  The  story,  on  this 
occasion,  being  Miss  Lavinia's  storj^,  the  polite 
contradictions  necessary  to  its  successful  progress 
were  naturally  transferred  from  the  sister  to  the 
brother,  and  became  contradictions  on  Sir  Jo- 
seph's side. 

"No,"  said  Miss  Lavinia,  gently,  "if  you  will 
have  it,  Joseph — jam." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  persisted  Sir  Joseph; 
"marmalade." 

"What  does  it  matter,  brother?" 

"Sister!  the  late  great  and  good  Doctor  John- 
son said  accuracy  ought  alwa5"s  to  be  studied 
even  in  the  most  trifling  things." 

"You   will  have    your  way,   Joseph" — (this 


MISS   OK   MRS.  ?  413 

was  the  formula — answering  to  Sir  Joseph's 
"Let  us  waive  the  point" — which  Miss  Lavinia 
used,  as  a  means  of  conciliating  her  brother,  and 
getting  a  fresh  start  for  her  story).  "Well,  we 
took  dear  Natalie  out  between  us,  after  break- 
fast, for  a  little  walk  in  the  grounds.  My  brother 
opened  the  subject  with  infinite  delicacy  and 
tact.  'Circumstances,'  he  said,  'into  which  it 
was  not  then  necessary  to  enter,  made  it  very 
desirable,  young  as  she  was,  to  begin  to  think  of 
her  establishment  in  life.'  And  then  he  referred, 
Richard  (so  nicely),  to  your  faithful  and  devoted 
attachment — ' ' 

"Excuse  me,  Lavinia,  I  began  with  Richard's 
attachment,  and  then  I  got  on  to  her  establish- 
ment in  life." 

"Excuse  me,  Joseph.  You  managed  it  much 
more  delicately  than  you  suppose.  You  didn't 
drag  Richard  in  by  the  head  and  shoulders  in 
that  way." 

"Lavinia!  I  began  with  Richard." 

"Joseph!  your  memory  deceives  you." 

Turlington's  impatience  broke  through  all  re- 
straint. 

"How  did  it  end?"  he  asked.  "Did  you  pro- 
pose to  her  that  we  should  be  married  in  the  first 
week  of  the  New  Year?" 

"Yes!"  said  Miss  Lavinia. 

"No!"  said  Sir  Joseph. 

The  sister  looked  at  the  brother  with  an  ex- 
pression of  affectionate  surprise.  The  brother 
looked  at  the  sister  with  a  fund  of  amiable  con- 
tradiction, expressed  in  a  low  bow. 


414  WORKS    OF    WILKIE   COLONS. 

"Do  3^ou  really  mean  to  deny,  Joseph,  that 
you  told  Natalie  we  had  decided  on  the  first  week 
in  the  New  Year?" 

"I  deny  the  New  Year,  Lavinia.  I  said  earl}' 
in  January." 

"You  ivill  have  your  way,  Joseph!  We  were 
walking  in  the  shrubbery  at  the  time.  I  had 
our  dear  girl's  arm  in  mine,  and  I  felt  it  trem- 
ble. She  suddenly  stopped.  'Oh,'  she  said, 
'not  so  soon!'  I  said,  'My  dear,  consider  Rich- 
ard ! '  She  turned  to  her  father.  She.  said, 
'Don't,  pray  don't  press  it  so  soon,  papa!  I  re- 
spect Richard ;  I  like  Richard  as  your  true  and 
faithful  friend;  but  I  don't  love  him  as  I  ought 
to  love  him  if  I  am  to  be  his  wife. '  Imagine 
her  talking  in  that  waj^ !  What  could  she  pos- 
sibly know  about  it?  Of  course  we  both 
laughed — ' ' 

' '  You  laughed,  Lavinia. ' ' 

^^You  laughed,  Joseph." 

"Get  on,  for  God's  sake!"  cried  Turlington, 
striking  his  hand  passionately  on  the  table  by 
which  he  was  sitting.  "Don't  madden  me  by 
contradicting  each  other !  Did  she  give  way  or 
not?" 

Miss  Lavinia  turned  to  her  brother.  ' '  Contra- 
dicting each  other,  Joseph!"  she  exclaimed, 
lifting  her  hands  in  blank  amazement. 

"Contradicting  each  other!"  repeated  Sir  Jo- 
seph, equally  astonished  on  his  side.  "My  dear 
Richard,  what  can  you  be  thinking  of?  I  con- 
tradict my  sister !  We  never  disagreed  in  our 
lives." 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  415 

*'I  contradict  my  brother!  We  have  never 
had  a  cross  word  between  us  from  the  time  when 
we  were  children." 

Turlington  internally  cursed  his  own  irritable 
temper. 

"I  beg  your  pardon — both  of  you,"  he  said. 
"I  didn't  know  what  I  was  saying.  Make  some 
allowance  for  me.  All  my  hopes  in  life  are  cen- 
tered in  Natalie;  and  you  have  just  told  me  (in 
her  own  words,  Miss  Lavinia)  that  she  doesn't 
love.  You  don't  mean  any  harm,  I  dare  say ; 
but  you  cut  me  to  the  heart." 

This  confession,  and  the  look  that  accom- 
panied it,  touched  the  ready  sympathies  of  the 
two  old  people  in  the  right  place.  The  remainder 
of  the  story  dropped  between  them  by  common 
consent.  They  vied  with  each  other  in  saying 
the  comforting  words  which  would  allay  their 
dear  Richard's  anxiety.  How  little  he  knew  of 
young  girls.  How  could  he  be  so  foolish,  poor 
fellow !  as  to  attach  any  serious  importance  to 
what  Natalie  had  said?  As  if  a  young  creature 
in  her  teens  knew  the  state  of  her  own  heart! 
Protestations  and  entreaties  were  matters  of 
course,  in  such  cases.  Tears  even  might  be  con- 
fidently expected  from  a  right-minded  girl.  It 
had  all  ended  exactly  as  Richard  would  have 
wished  it  to  end.  Sir  Joseph  had  said,  "My 
child !  this  is  a  matter  of  experience ;  love  will 
come  when  you  are  married."  And  Miss  La- 
vinia had  added,  "Dear  Natalie,  if  you  remem- 
bered your  poor  mother  as  I  remember  her,  you 
would  know  that  your  father's  experience  is  to 


Ill)  WORKS     OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

be  relied  on. "  In  that  way  they  had  put  it  to 
her;  and  she  had  hung  her  head  and  had  given 
— all  that  maiden  modesty  could  be  expected  to 
give — a  silent  consent.  "The  wedding-day  was 
fixed  for  the  first  week  in  the  New  Year." 
("No,  Joseph;  not  January — the  New  Year.") 
"And  God  bless  you,  Richard!  and  may  your 
married  life  be  a  long  and  happy  one. ' ' 

So  the  average  ignorance  of  human  nature, 
and  the  average  belief  in  conventional  sentiment, 
complacently  contemplated  the  sacrifice  of  one 
more  victim  on  the  all-devouring  altar  of  Mar- 
riage! So  Sir  Joseph  and  his  sister  provided 
Launcelot  Linzie  with  the  one  argument  which 
he  wanted  to  convince  Natalie:  "Choose  be- 
tween making  the  miserj'^  of  j^our  life  by  marry- 
ing /i*m,  and  making  the  happiness  of  your  life 
by  marrying  me.'''' 

"When  shall  I  see  her?"  asked  Turlington, 
with  Miss  Lavinia  (in  tears  which  did  her  credit) 
in  possession  of  one  of  his  hands,  and  Sir  Joseph 
(in  tears  which  did  him  credit)  in  possession  of 
the  other. 

"She  will  be  back  to  dinner,  dear  Richard. 
Stay  and  dine." 

"Thank  you.  I  must  go  into  the  City  first.  I 
will  come  back  and  dine." 

With  that  arrangement  in  prospect,  he  left 
them. 

An  hour  later  a  telegram  arrived  from  Natalie. 
She  had  consented  to  dine,  as  well  as  lunch,  in 
Berkeley  Square — sleeping  there  that  night,  and 
returning   the   next  morning.      Her  father  in- 


MISS    OR    MRS.?  417 

stantly  telegraphed  back  by  tho  inesseuger,  in- 
sisting on  Natalie's  return  to  Muswell  Hill  that 
evening,  in  time  to  meet  Richard  Turlington  at 
dinner. 

"Quite  right,  Joseph,"  said  Miss  Lavinia, 
looking  over  her  brother's  shoulder,  while  he 
wrote  the  telegram. 

"She  is  showing  a  disposition  to  coquet  with 
Richard,"  rejoined  Sir  Joseph,  with  the  air  of 
a  man  who  knew  female  human  nature  in  its 
remotest  corners.  "My  telegram,  Lavinia,  will 
have  its  effect." 

Sir  Joseph  was  quite  right.  His  telegram  had 
its  effect.  It  not  only  brought  his  daughter  back 
to  dinner — it  produced  another  result  which  his 
prophetic  faculty  had  altogether  failed  to  foresee. 

The  message  reached  Berkeley  Square  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  Let  us  follow  the 
message. 


FIFTH  SCENE. 

THE   SQUARE. 

Between  four  and  five  in  the  afternoon — 
when  the  women  of  the  Western  regions  are  in 
their  carriages,  and  the  men  are  at  their  clubs — 
London  presents  few  places  more  conveniently 
adapted  for  purposes  of  private  talk  than  the 
solitary  garden  inclosure  of  a  square. 

On  the  day  when  Richard  Turlington  paid  his 
visit  to  Muswell  Hill,  two  ladies  (with  a  se.cret 
between  them)   unlocked   the  gate  of  the  railed 


418  WORKS    OF    WILKIE     COLLINS. 

garden  in  Berkeley  Square.  They  shut  the  gate 
after  entering  the  inclosure,  but  carefully  for- 
bore to  lock  it  as  well,  and  carefully  restricted 
their  walk  to  the  westward  side  of  the  garden. 
Oue  of  them  was  Natalie  Graybrooke.  The 
other  was  Mrs.  Bancroft's  eldest  daughter.  A 
certain  temporary  interest  attached,  in  the  esti- 
mation of  society,  to  this  young  lady.  She  had 
sold  well  in  the  marriage  market.  In  other 
words,  she  had  recently  been  raised  to  the  posi- 
tion of  Lord  Win  wood's  second  wife ;  his  lord- 
ship conferring  on  the  bride  not  only  the  honors 
of  the  peerage,  but  the  additional  distinction  of 
being  stepmother  to  his  three  single  daughters, 
all  older  than  herself.  In  person,  Lady  Winwood 
was  little  and  fair.  In  character,  she  was  dash- 
ing and  resolute — a  complete  contrast  to  Natalie, 
and  (on  that  very  account)  Natalie's  bosom 
friend. 

"My  dear,  one  ambitious  marriage  in  the  fam- 
ily is  quite  enough !  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
that  you  shall  marry  the  man  you  love.  Don't 
tell  me  your  courage  is  failing  you — the  excuse 
is  contemptible;  I  decline  to  receive  it.  Natalie! 
the  men  have  a  phrase  which  exactly  describes 
your  character.     You  want  back-bone!" 

The  bonnet  of  the  lady  who  expressed  herself 
in  these  peremptory  terms  barely  reached  the 
height  of  Natalie's  shoulder.  Natalie  might 
have  blown  the  little  airy,  light-haired,  unsub- 
stantial creature  over  the  railings  of  the  garden 
if  she  had  taken  a  good  long  breath  and  stooped 
low  enough.     But   who   ever  met  with   a  tall 


MISS  OR   MRS.?  410 

woman  who  had  a  will  of  her  own?  Natalie's 
languid  brown  eyes  looked  softly  down  in  sub- 
missive attention  from  an  elevation  of  five  feet 
seven.  Lady  Winwood's  brisk  blue  eyes  looked 
brightly  up  in  despotic  command  from  an  eleva- 
tion of  four  feet  eleven  (in  her  shoes). 

"You  are  trifling  with  Mr.  Linzie,  my  dear, 
Mr.  Linzie  is  a  nice  fellow.  I  like  him.  I  won't 
have  that." 

"Louisa!" 

"Mr.  Turlington  has  nothing  to  recommend 
him.  He  is  not  a  well-bred  old  gentleman  of 
exalted  rank.  He  is  only  an  odious  brute  who 
happens  to  have  made  money  You  shall  not 
marry  Mr.  Turlington.  And  y  ai  shall  marry 
Launcelot  Linzie." 

"Will  you  let  me  speak,  Louisa?" 

"I  will  let  3^ou answer — nothing  more.  Didn't 
you  come  crying  to  me  this  morning?  Didn't 
yon  say,  'Louisa,  they  have  pronounced  sentence 
on  me !  I  am  to  be  married  in  the  first  week  of 
the  New  Year.  Help  me  out  of  it,  for  Heaven's 
sake!'  You  said  all  that,  and  more.  And  what 
did  I  do  when  I  heard  your  story?" 

"Oh,  you  were  so  kind — " 

"Kind  doesn't  half  express  it,  I  have  com- 
mitted crimes  on  your  account.  I  have  deceived 
my  husband  and  my  mother.  For  your  sake  I 
got  mamma  to  ask  Mr.  Linzie  to  lunch  (as  my 
friend!).  For  your  sake  I  have  banished  va.j 
unoffending  husband,  not  an  hour  since,  to  his 
club.  You  wretched  girl,  who  arranged  a  pri- 
vate conference  in  the  library?     Who  sent  Mr. 


420  WORKS     OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Liiizie  off  to  consult  his  friend  in  the  Temple 
on  the  law  of  clandestine  marriage?  Who  sug- 
gested your  telegraphing  home,  and  stopping 
here  for  the  night?  Who  made  an  appointment 
to  meet  your  young  man  privately  in  this  detest- 
able place  in  ten  minutes'  time?  I  did!  I  did! 
I  did !  All  in  your  interests.  All  to  prevent 
you  from  doing  what  I  have  done — marrying 
to  please  your  family  instead  of  to  please  your- 
self. (I  don't  complain,  mind,  of  Lord  Win- 
wood,  or  of  his  daughters.  He  is  charming;  his 
daughters  I  shall  tame  in  course  of  time.  You 
are  different.  And  Mr.  Turlington,  as  I  observed 
before,  is  a  brute.)  Very  well.  Now  what  do 
you  owe  me  on  your  side?  You  owe  it  to  me  at 
least  to  know  your  own  mind.  You  don't  know 
it.  You  coolly  inform  me  that  you  daren't  run 
the  risk  after  all,  and  that  you  can't  face  the 
consequences  on  second  thoughts.  I'll  tell  you 
what!  You  don't  deserve  that  nice  fellow,  who 
worships  the  very  ground  you  tread  on.  You 
are  a  bread-and-butter  miss.  I  don't  believe 
you  are  fond  of  him !" 

' '  Not  fond  of  him ! ' '  Natalie  stopped,  and 
clasped  her  hands  in  despair  of  finding  language 
strong  enough  for  the  occasion.  At  the  same 
moment  the  sound  of  a  closing  gate  caught  her 
ear.  She  looked  round.  Launce  had  kept  his 
appointment  before  his  time.  Launce  was  in  the 
garden,  rajDidly  approaching  them. 

"Now  for  the  Law  of  Clandestine  Marriage!" 
said  Lady  Winwood.  "Mr.  Linzie,  we  will  take 
it  sitting."      She  led   the   way   to  one  of  the 


MISS   OR   MRS.  ?  42' 

benches  in  the  garden,  and  placed  Launco  be- 
tween Natalie  and  herself.  "Well,  Chief  Con- 
spirator, hav^e  you  got  the  License?  No?  Does 
it  cost  too  much?     Can  I  lend  you  the  money?" 

"It  costs  perjury.  Lady  Win  wood,  in  my 
case,"  said  Launce.  "Natalie  is  not  of  age.  I 
can  only  get  a  License  by  taking  my  oath  that  I 
marry  her  with  her  father's  consent. ' '  He  turned 
piteously  to  Natalie.  "I  couldn't  very  well  do 
that,"  he  said,  in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  feels 
bound  to  make  an  apologj^,  "could  I?"  Nata- 
lie shuddered;  Lady  Win  wood  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

"In  your  place  a  woman  wouldn't  have  hesi- 
tated," her  ladyship  remarked.  "But  men  are 
so  selfish.  "Well !  I  suppose  there  is  some  other 
way?" 

"Yes,  there  is  another  way,"  said  Launce. 
"But  there  is  a  horrid  condition  attached  to  it — " 

"Something  worse  than  perjury,  Mr.  Linzie? 
Murder?" 

"I'll  tell  you  directly.  Lady  Winwood.  The 
marriage  comes  first.  The  condition  follows. 
There  is  only  one  chance  for  us.  We  must  be 
married  by  banns." 

"Banns!"  cried  Natalie.  "Why,  banns  are 
publicly  proclaimed  in  church!" 

"They  needn't  be  proclaimed  in  your  church, 
you  goose,"  said  Lady  Winwood.  "And,  even 
if  they  were,  nobody  would  be  the  wiser.  You 
may  trust  implicitly,  my  dear,  in  the  elocution 
of  an  English  clergyman!" 

"That's   just   what   my  friend    said,"   cried 


422  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLONS. 

Launce.  "  'Take  a  lodging  near  a  large  parish 
church,  in  a  remote  part  of  London' — (this  is 
my  friend's  advice) — 'go  to  the  clerk,  tell  him 
you  want  to  be  married  by  banns,  and  say  you 
belong  to  that  parish.  As  for  the  lady,  in  your 
place  I  should  simplify  it.  I  should  say  she  be- 
longed to  the  parish  too.  Give  an  address,  and 
have  some  one  there  to  answer  questions.  How 
is  the  clerk  to  know?  He  isn't  likely  to  be  over- 
anxious about  it — his  fee  is  eighteen-pence.  The 
clerk  makes  his  profit  out  of  you,  after  you  are 
married.  The  same  rule  applies  to  the  parson. 
He  will  have  your  names  supplied  to  him  on  a 
strip  of  paper,  with  dozens  of  other  names;  and 
he  will  read  them  out  all  together  in  one  inartic- 
ulate jumble  in  church.  You  will  stand  at  the 
altar  when  your  time  comes,  with  Brown  and 
Jones,  Nokes  and  Styles,  Jack  and  Gill.  All 
that  you  will  have  to  do  is,  ,to  take  care  that 
your  young  lady  doesn't  fall  to  Jack,  and  you  to 
Gill,  by  mistake — and  there  you  are,  married  by 
banns. '  My  friend's  opinion,  stated  in  his  own 
words." 

Natalie  sighed,  and  wrung  her  hands  in  her 
lap.  "We  shall  never  get  through  it,"  she  said, 
despondingly. 

Lady  Winwood  took  a  more  cheerful  view. 

"I  see  nothing  very  formidable  as  yet,  my 
dear.  But  we  have  still  to  hear  the  end  of  it. 
You  mentioned  a  condition  just  now,  Mr,  Lin- 
zie." 

"I  am  coming  to  the  condition.  Lady  "Win- 
wood.     You  naturally  suppose,  as  I  did,  that  I 


MISS   OR    MRS.  ?  423 

put  Natalie  into  a  cab,  and  run  away  with  her 
from  the  church  door?" 

"Certainly.  And  I  throw  an  old  shoe  after 
you  for  luck,  and  go  home  again." 

Launce  shook  his  head  ominously. 

"Natalie must  go  home  again  as  well  as  you!" 

Lady  "Winwood  started.  "Is  that  the  condi- 
tion you  mentioned  just  now?"  she  asked. 

"That  is  the  condition.  I  may  marry  her 
without  anything  serious  coming  of  it.  But,  if 
I  run  away  with  her  afterward,  and  if  you  are 
there,  aiding  and  abetting  me,  we  are  guilty  of 
Abduction,  and  we  may  stand,  side  by  side,  at 
the  bar  of  the  Old  Bailey  to  answer  for  it!" 

Natalie  sprang  to  her  feet  in  horror.  Lady 
Winwood  held  up  one  finger  warningly,  signing 
to  her  to  let  Launce  go  on. 

"Natalie  is  not  yet  sixteen  years  old,"  Launce 
proceeded.  "She  must  go  straight  back  to  her 
father's  house  from  the  church,  and  I  must  wait 
to  run  away  with  her  till  her  next  birthday. 
When  she's  turned  sixteen,  she's  ripe  for  elope- 
ment— not  an  hour  before.  There  is  the  law  of 
Abduction !  Despotism  in  a  free  country — that's 
what  I  call  it!" 

Natalie  sat  down  again,  with  an  air  of  relief. 

"It's  a  very  comforting  law,  /  think,"  she 
said.  "It  doesn't  force  one  to  take  the  dreadful 
step  of  running  away  from  home  all  at  once.  It 
gives  one  time  to  consider,  and  plan,  and  make 
up  one's  mind.  I  can  tell  you  this,  Launce,  if  I 
am  to  be  persuaded  into  marrying  3"ou,  the  law 
of  Abduction  is  the  only  thing  that  will  induce 


424  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

me  to  do  it.  You .  ought  to  thank  the  law,  in- 
stead of  abusing  it. ' ' 

Launce  listened — without  conviction. 

"It's  a  pleasant  prospect,"  he  said,  "to  part 
at  the  church  door,  and  to  treat  my  own  wife  on 
the  footing  of  a  young  lady  who  is  engaged  to 
marry  another  gentleman." 

"Is  it  any  pleasanter  for  ?wt3,"  retorted  Na- 
talie, "to  have  Richard  Turlington  courting  me, 
when  I  am  all  the  time  your  wife?  I  shall  never 
be  able  to  do  it.     I  wish  I  was  dead!" 

"Come!  come!"  interposed  Lady  Winwood. 
"It's  time  to  be  serious.  Natalie's  birthday, 
Mr.  Linzie,  is  next  Christmas- day.  She  will  be 
sixteen — " 

' '  At  seven  in  the  morning, ' '  said  Launce ;  "  I 
got  that  out  of  Sir  Joseph.  At  one  minute  past 
seven,  Greenwich  mean  time,  we  may  be  off  to- 
gether.    I  got  that  out  of  the  lawyer." 

"And  it  isn't  an  eternity  to  wait  from  now 
till  Christmas-day.  You  get  that,  by  way  of 
completing  the  list  of  your  acquisitions,  out  of 
me.  In  the  mean  time,  can  you,  or  can  you  not, 
manage  to  meet  the  difl&culties  in  the  way  of  the 
marriage?" 

' '  I  have  settled  everything, ' '  Launce  answered, 
confidently.  "There  is  not  a  single  difficulty 
left." 

He  turned  to  Natalie,  listening  to  him  in 
amazement,  and  explained  himself.  It  had 
struck  him  that  he  might  appeal— with  his  purse 
in  his  hand,  of  course — to  the  interest  felt  in  his 
affairs  by  the  late  stewardess  of  the  yacht.  That 


MISS    OK    MRS.?  425 

excellent  woman  had  volunteered  to  do  all  that 
she  could  to  help  him.  Her  husband  had  ob- 
tained situations  for  his  wife  and  himself  on 
board  another  yacht — and  they  were  both  eager 
to  assist  in  any  conspiracy  in  which  their  late 
merciless  master  was  destined  to  play  the  part 
of  victim.  When  on  shore,  they  lived  in  a  pop- 
ulous London  parish,  far  away  from  the  fashion- 
able disti'ict  of  Berkeley  Square,  and  further  yet 
from  the  respe'^table  suburb  of  Muswell  Hill.  A 
room  in  the  house  could  be  nominally  engaged 
for  Natalie,  in  the  assumed  character  of  the 
stewardess's  niece — the  stewardess  undertaking 
to  answer  any  purely  formal  questions  which 
might  be  put  by  the  church  authorities,  and  to 
be  present  at  the  marriage  ceremony.  As  for 
Launce,  he  would  actually,  as  well  as  nominally, 
live  in  the  district  close  by;  and  the  steward,  if 
needful,  would  answer  for  him.  Natalie  might 
call  at  her  parochial  residence  occasionally,  un- 
der the  wing  of  Lady  Winwood ;  gaining  leave 
of  absence  from  Muswell  Hill,  on  the  plea  of  pay- 
ing one  of  her  customary  visits  at  her  aunt's 
house.  The  conspiracy,  in  brief,  was  arranged 
in  all  its  details.  Nothing  was  now  wanting  but 
the  consent  of  the  young  lady ;  obtaining  which, 
Launce  would  go  to  the  parish  church  and  give 
the  necessary  notice  of  a  marriage  by  banns  on 
the  next  day.  There  was  the  plot.  What  did 
the  ladies  think  of  it? 

Lady  Winwood  thought  it  perfect. 

Natalie  was  not  so  easily  satisfied. 

"My  father  has  always  been  so  kind  to  me!" 


420  WORKS     OF     WILKIE    COLLINS. 

she  said.  "The  one  thing  I  can't  get  over, 
Launce,  is  distressing  papa.  If  he  had  been 
hard  on  me — as  some  fathers  are — I  shouldn't 
mind."  She  suddenly  brightened,  as  if  she  saw 
her  position  in  a  new  light.  "Why  should  you 
hurry  me?"  she  asked.  "I  am  going  to  dine  at 
my  aunt's  to-day,  and  you  are  coming  in  the 
evening.     Give  me  time!     Wait  till  to-night." 

Launce  instantly  entered  his  protest  against 
wasting  a  moment  longer.  Lady  Winwood 
opened  her  lips  to  support  him.  They  were  both 
silenced  at  the  same  moment  by  the  appearance 
of  one  of  Mrs.  Sancroft's  servants,  opening  the 
gate  of  the  square. 

Lady  Winwood  went  forward  to  meet  the 
man.  A  suspicion  crossed  her  mind  that  he 
might  be  bringing  bad  news. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  mj'  lady — the  house- 
keeper said  you  were  walking  here  with  Miss 
Graybrooke.  A  telegram  for  Miss  Graybrooke. ' ' 

Lady  Winwood  took  the  telegram  from  the 
man's  hand;  dismissed  him,  and  went  back 
with  it  to  Natalie.  Natalie  opened  it  nervously. 
She  read  the  message — and  instantly  changed. 
Her  cheeks  flushed  deep ;  her  eyes  flashed  with 
indignation.  "Even  papa  can  be  hard  on  me, 
it  seems,  when  Richard  asks  him!"  she  ex- 
claimed. She  handed  the  telegram  to  Launce. 
Her  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears.  * '  You  love 
me,"  she  said,  gently — and  stopped.  "Marry 
me!"  she  added,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  resolu- 
tion.    "I'll  risk  it!" 


MISS  OR  MRS.?  4:27 

As  she  spoke  those  words,  Lady  Winwood 
read  the  telegram.     It  ran  thus : 

"Sir  Joseph  Graybrooke,  Muswell  Hill.  To 
Miss  Natalie  Graybrooke,  Berkeley  Square. 
Come  back  immediately.  You  are  engaged  to 
dine  here  with  Richard  Turlington." 

Lady  Winwood  folded  up  the  telegram  with 
a  malicious  smile.  "Well  done,  Sir  Joseph!" 
thought  her  ladyship.  ' '  We  might  never  have 
persuaded  Natalie — but  for  You!" 


SIXTH   SCENE. 

THE   CHURCH. 

The  time  is  morning ;  the  date  is  early  in  the 
month  of  November.  The  place  Is  a  church,  in 
a  poor  and  populous  parish  in  the  undiscovered 
regions  of  London,  eastward  of  the  Tower,  and 
hard  by  the  river-side. 

A  marriage  procession  of  five  approaches  the 
altar.  The  bridegroom  is  pale,  and  the  bride  is 
frightened.  The  bride's  friend  (a  resolute-look- 
ing little  lady)  encourages  her  in  whispers.  The 
two  respectable  persons,  apparently  man  and 
wife,  who  complete  the  procession,  seem  to  be 
not  quite  clear  as  to  the  position  which  they  oc- 
cupy at  the  ceremony.  The  beadle,  as  he  mar- 
shals them  before  the  altar,  sees  something  under 
the  surface  in  this  wedding-party.  Marriages 
in  the  lower  ranks  of  life  are  the  only  marriages 
celebrated  here.    Is  this  a  runaway  match?    The 


42R  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

beadle  anticipates  something  out  of  the  common 
in  the  shape  of  a  fee. 

The  clergyman  (the  junior  curate)  appears 
from  the  vestry  in  his  robes.  The  clerk  takes 
his  place.  The  clergyman's  eye  rests  with  a 
sudden  interest  and  curiosity  on  the  bride  and 
bridegroom,  and  on  the  bride's  friend;  notices 
the  absence  of  elderly  relatives ;  remarks,  in  the 
two  ladies  especially,  evidencesof  refinement  and 
breeding  entirely  unparalleled  in  his  professional 
experience  of  brides  and  brides'  friends  standing 
before  the  altar  of  that  church;  questions,  si- 
lently and  quickly,  the  eye  of  the  clerk,  occupied 
also  in  observing  the  strangers  with  interest. 
"Jenkinson"  (the  clergjnnan's  look  asks),  "is 
this  all  right?"  "Sir"  (the  clerk's  look  answers), 
"a  marriage  by  banns;  all  the  formalities  have 
been  observed/'  The  clergyman  opens  his  book. 
The  formalities  have  been  observed;  his  duty 
lies  plainly  before  him.  Attention,  Launcelot! 
Courage,  Natalie !     The  service  begins. 

Launce  casts  a  last  furtive  look  round  the 
church.  Will  Sir  Joseph  Graybrooke  start  up 
and  stop  it  from  one  of  the  empty  pews?  Is 
Richard  Turlington  lurking  in  the  organ-loft, 
and  only  waiting  till  the  words  of  the  service 
appeal  to  him  to  prohibit  the  marriage,  or  "else 
hereafter  forever  to  hold  his  peace?"  No.  The 
clergyman  proceeds  steadily,  and  nothing  hap- 
pens. Natalie's  charming  face  grows  paler  and 
paler,  Natalie's  heart  throbs  faster  and  faster, 
as  the  time  comes  nearer  for  reading  the  words 
which  unite  them  for  life.     Lady  Winwood  her- 


MISS   OK    MRS.?  42'.l 

self  feels  an  unaccustomed  fluttering  in  the  region 
of  the  bosom.  Her  ladyship's  thoughts  revert, 
not  altogether  pleasantly,  to  her  own  marriage: 
"Ah  me!  what  was  I  thinking  of  when  I  was 
in  this  position'?  Of  the  bride's  beautiful  dress, 
and  of  Lad}^  Winwood's  coming  presentation  at 
court!" 

The  service  advances  to  the  words  in  which 
they  plight  their  troth.  Launce  has  put  the  ring 
on  her  finger.  Launce  has  repeated  the  words 
after  the  clergyman.  Launce  has  married  her ! 
Done !     Come  what  may  of  it,  done ! 

The  service  ends.  Bridegroom,  bride,  and 
witnesses  go  into  the  vestry  to  sign  the  book. 
The  signing,  like  the  service,  is  serious.  No 
trifling  with  the  truth  is  possible  here.  When 
it  comes  to  Lady  Winwood's  turn,  Lady  Win- 
wood  must  write  her  name.  She  does  it,  but 
without  her  usual  grace  and  decision.  She 
drops  her  handkerchief.  The  clerk  picks  it  up 
for  her,  and  notices  that  a  coronet  is  embroid- 
ered in  one  corner. 

The  fees  are  paid.  They  leave  the  vestry. 
Other  couples,  when  it  is  over,  are  talkative 
and  happy.  These  two  are  more  silent  and 
more  embarrassed  than  ever.  Stranger  still, 
while  other  couples  go  off  with  relatives  and 
friends,  all  socially  united  in  honor  of  the  oc- 
casion, these  two  and  their  friends  part  at  the 
church  door.  The  respectable  man  and  his  wife 
go  their  way  on  foot.  The  little  lady  with  the 
coronet  on  her  handkerchief  puts  the  bride  into 
a  cab,  gets  in  herself,  and  directs  the  driver  to 


430  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

close  the  door,  while  the  bridegroom  is  standing 
on  the  church  steps!  The  bridegroom's  face  is 
clouded,  as  well  it  may  be.  He  puts  his  head 
in  at  the  window  of  the  cab;  he  possesses  him- 
self of  the  bride's  hand;  he  speaks  in  a  whisper; 
he  is  apparently  not  to  be  shaken  off.  The  little 
lady  exerts  her  authority,  separates  the  clasped 
hands,  pushes  the  bridegroom  away,  and  cries 
peremptorily  to  the  driver  to  go  on.  The  cab 
starts;  the  deserted  husband  drifts  desolately 
anyhow  down  the  street.  The  clerk,  who  has 
seen  it  all,  goes  back  to  the  vestry  and  reports 
what  has  happened. 

The  rector  (with  his  wife  on  his  arm)  has  just 
dropped  into  the  vestry  on  business  in  passing. 
He  and  the  curate  are  talking  about  the  strange 
marriage.  The  rector,  gravely  bent  on  ascer- 
taining that  no  blame  rests  with  the  church, 
interrogates,  and  is  satisfied.  The  rector's  wife 
is  not  so  easy  to  deal  with.  She  has  looked  at 
the  signatures  in  the  book.  One  of  the  names 
is  familiar  to  her.  She  cross-examines  the  clerk 
as  soon  as  her  husband  is  done  with  him.  When 
she  hears  of  the  coronet  on  the  handkerchief  she 
points  to  the  signature  of  "Louisa  Winwood," 
and  says  to  the  rector,  ' '  I  know  who  it  is !  Lord 
Winwood's  second  wife.  I  went  to  school  with 
his  lordship's  daughters  by  his  first  marriage. 
We  occasionally  meet  at  the  Sacred  Concerts  (on 
the  'Ladies'  Committee');  I  shall  find  an  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  to  them.  One  moment,  Mr. 
Jenkinson,  I  will  write  down  the  names  before 
you   put  away  the  book.      'Launcelot  Linzie,' 


MISS  OR  MRS.?  431 

'Natalie  Graybrooke.'  Very  pretty  names; 
cinite  romantic.  I  do  delight  in  a  romance. 
Good-morning. ' ' 

She  gives  the  curate  a  parting  smile,  and  the 
clerk  a  parting  nod,  and  sails  out  of  the  vestry. 
Natalie,  silently  returning  in  Lady  Win  wood's 
company  to  Muswell  Hill ;  and  Launce,  cursing 
the  law  of  Abduction  as  he  roams  the  streets — 
little  think  that  the  ground  is  already  mined 
under  their  feet.  Richard  Turlington  may  hear 
of  it  now,  or  may  hear  of  it  later.  The  discovery 
of  the  marriage  depends  entirely  on  a  chance 
meeting  between  the  lord's  daughters  and  the 
rector's  wife. 


SEVENTH   SCENE. 


THE      EVENING      PARTY. 


Mr.  Turlington, 

Lady  Winwood  At  Home, 
Wednesday,  December  15th. — Ten  o'clock. 


"Dearest  Natalie — As  the  brute  insists,  the 
brute  must  have  the  invitation  which  I  inclose. 
Never  mind,  my  child.  You  and  Launce  are 
coming  to  dinner,  and  I  will  see  that  you  have 
your  little  private  opportunities  of  retirement 
afterward.  All  I  expect  of  you  in  return  is,  not 
to  look  (when  you  come  back)  as  if  your  hus- 


432  WORKS    OP   WILKIE    COLLINS. 

band  had  been  kissing  you.  You  will  certainly 
let  out  the  secret  of  those  stolen  kisses,  if  j^ou 
don't  take  care.  At  mamma's  dinner  yesterda}', 
your  color  (when  you  came  out  of  the  conserva- 
tory) was  a  sight  to  see.  Even  your  shoulders 
were  red !  They  are  charming  shoulders,  I  know, 
and  men  take  the  strangest  fancies  sometimes. 
But,  my  dear,  suppose  you  wear  a  chemisette 
next  time,  if  you  haven't  authority  enough  over 
him  to  prevent  his  doing  it  again ! 

"Your  affectionate  Louisa." 

The  private  history  of  the  days  that  had 
passed  since  the  marriage  was  written  in  that 
letter.  An  additional  chapter — of  some  impor- 
tance in  its  bearing  on  the  future— wa,s  contrib- 
uted by  the  progress  of  events  at  Lady  Win- 
wood's  party. 

By  previous  arrangement  with  Natalie,  the 
Graybrookes  (invited  to  dinner)  arrived  early. 
Leaving  her  husband  and  her  stepdaughters  to 
entertain  Sir  Joseph  and  Miss  Lavinia,  Lady 
Winwood  took  Natalie  into  her  own  boudoir, 
which  communicated  by  a  curtained  opening 
with  the  drawing-room. 

"My  dear,  you  are  looking  positively  haggard 
this  evening.     Has  anything  happened?" 

"I  am  nearly  worn  out,  Louisa.  The  life  I 
am  leading  is  so  unendurable  that,  if  Launce 
pressed  me,  T  believe  I  should  consent  to  run 
away  with  him  when  we  leave  your  house  to- 
night." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  if  you  please. 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  43;} 

Wait  till  you  are  sixteen.  I  delight  in  novelty, 
but  the  novelty  of  appearing  at  the  Old  Bailey 
is  beyond  my  ambition.  Is  the  brute  coming 
to-night?" 

"Of  course.  He  insists  on  following  me 
wherever  I  go.  He  lunched  at  Muswell  Hill  to- 
day. More  complaints  of  my  incomprehensible 
coldness  to  him.  Another  scolding  from  papa. 
A  furious  letter  from  Launce.  If  I  let  Richard 
kiss  my  hand  again  in  his  presence,  Launce 
warns  me  he  will  knock  him  down.  Oh,  the 
meanness  and  the  guiltiness  of  the  life  I  am 
leading  now!  I  am  in  the  falsest  of  all  false 
positions,  Louisa,  and  you  encouraged  me  to  do 
it.  I  believe  Richard  Turlington  suspects  us. 
The  last  two  times  Launce  and  I  tried  to  get  a 
minute  together  at  my  aunt's,  he  contrived  to 
put  himself  in  our  way.  There  he  was,  my  dear, 
with  his  scowling  face,  looking  as  if  he  longed 
to  kill  Launce.  Can  you  do  anything  for  us  to- 
night? Not  on  my  account.  But  Launce  is  so 
impatient.  If  he  can't  say  two  words  to  me 
alone  this  evening,  he  declares  he  will  come  to 
Muswell  Hill,  and  catch  me  in  the  garden  to- 
morrow." 

' '  Compose  yourself,  my  dear ;  he  shall  say  his 
two  words  to-night." 

"How?" 

Lady  Winwood  pointed  through  the  curtained 
entrance  of  the  boudoir  to  the  door  of  the  draw- 
ing-room. Beyond  the  door  was  the  staircase 
landing.  And  beyond  the  landing  was  a  second 
drawinff-room,  the  smaller  of  the  two. 


434  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COL,LINS. 

"There  are  only  three  or  four  people  coming 
to  dinner,"  her  ladyship  proceeded;  "and  a  few 
more  in  the  evening.  Being  a  small  party,  the 
small  drawing-room  will  do  for  us.  This  draw- 
ing-room will  not  be  lighted,  and  there  will  be 
only  my  reading-lamp  here  in  the  boudoir.  I 
shall  give  the  signal  for  leaving  the  dining-room 
earlier  than  usual.  Launce  will  join  us  before 
the  evening  party  begins.  The  moment  he  ap- 
I^ears,  send  him  in  here — boldly  before  your  aunt 
and  all  of  us. ' ' 

"For  what?" 

"For  your  fan.  Leave  it  there  under  the 
sofa-cushion  before  we  go  down  to  dinner.  You 
will  sit  next  to  Launce,  and  you  will  give  him 
private  instructions  not  to  find  the  fan.  You 
will  get  impatient — you  will  go  to  find  it  your- 
self— and  there  you  are.  Take  care  of  your 
shoulders,  Mrs.  Linzie!  I  have  nothing  more 
to  sa}"." 

The  guests  asked  to  dinner  began  to  arrive. 
Lady  Win  wood  was  recalled  to  her  duties  as 
mistress  of  the  house. 

It  was  a  pleasant  little  dinner — with  one  draw- 
back. It  began  too  late.  The  ladies  only 
reached  the  small  drawing-room  at  ten  minutes 
to  ten.  Launce  was  only  able  to  join  them  as 
the  clock  struck. 

"Too  late!"  whispered  Natalie.  "He  will  be 
here  directly." 

"Nobody  comes  punctually  to  an  evening 
party,"  said  Launce.  "Don't  let  us  lose  a  mo- 
ment.    Send  me  for  your  fan." 


MISS   OR   MRS.  ?  436 

Natalie  opened  her  lips  to  say  the  necessary- 
words.  Before  she  could  speak,  the  servant 
announced — ' '  Mr.  Turlington. ' ' 

He  came  in,  with  his  stiffly-upright  shirt  col- 
lar and  his  loosely-fitting  glossy  black  clothes. 
He  made  his  sullen  and  clumsy  bow  to  Lady 
Winwood.  And  then  he  did,  what  he  had  done 
dozens  of  times  already — he  caught  Natalie,  with 
her  eyes  still  bright  and  her  face  still  animated 
(after  talking  to  Launce) — a  striking  contrast  to 
the  cold  and  unimpulsive  young  lady  whom  he 
was  accustomed  to  see  while  Natalie  was  talking 
to  him. 

Lord  Winwood's  daughters  were  persons  of 
some  celebrity  in  the  world  of  amateur  music. 
Noticing  the  look  that  Turlington  cast  at 
Launce,  Lady  Winwood  whispered  to  Miss  La- 
vinia — who  instantly  asked  the  young  ladies  to 
sing.  Launce,  in  obedience  to  a  sign  from  Na- 
talie, volunteered  to  find  the  music-books.  '  It  is 
needless  to  add  that  he  pitched  on  the  wrong 
volume  at  starting.  As  he  lifted  it  from  the 
piano  to  take  it  back  to  the  stand,  there  dropped 
out  from  between  the  leaves  a  printed  letter, 
looking  like  a  circular.  One  of  the  young  ladies 
took  it  up,  and  ran  her  eye  over  it,  with  a  start. 

"The  Sacred  Concerts!"  she  exclaimed. 

Her  two  sisters,  standing  hj,  looked  at  each 
other  guiltily:  "What  will  the  Committee  say 
to  us?  We  entirely  forgot  the  meeting  last 
month." 

"Is  there  a  meeting  this  month?" 

They  all  looked  anxiously  at  the  printed  letter. 


436  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLTNR. 

"Yes!  The  twenty-third  of  December.  Put 
it  down  in  your  book,  Amelia."  Amelia,  then 
and  there,  put  it  down  among  the  engagements 
for  the  latter  end  of  the  month.  And  Natalie's 
unacknowledged  husband  placidly  looked  on. 

So  did  the  merciless  irony  of  circumstances 
make  Launce  the  innocent  means  of  exposing 
his  own  secret  to  discovery.  Thanks  to  his  suc- 
cess in  laying  his  hand  on  the  wrong  music- 
book,  there  would  now  be  a  meeting — two  good 
days  before  the  elopement  could  take  place — be- 
tween the  lord's  daughters  and  the  rector's  wife! 

The  guests  of  the  evening  began  to  appear  by 
twos  and  threes.  The  gentlemen  below  stairs 
left  the  dinner-table,  and  joined  them. 

The  small  drawing-room  was  pleasantly  filled, 
and  no  more.  Sir  Jospeh  Graybrooke,  taking 
Turlington's  hand,  led  him  eagerly  to  their  host. 
The  talk  in  the  dining-room  had  turned  on 
finance.  Lord  Win  wood  was  not  quite  satisfied 
with  some  of  his  foreign  investments ;  and  Sir 
Joseph's  "dear  Richard"  was  the  very  man  to 
give  him  a  little  sound  advice.  The  three  laid 
their  heads  together  in  a  corner.  Launce  (watch- 
ing them)  slyly  pressed  Natalie's  hand.  A  re- 
nowned "virtuoso"  had  arrived,  and  was  thun- 
dering on  the  piano.  The  attention  of  the  guests 
generally  was  absorbed  in  the  performance.  A 
fairer  chance  of  sending  Launce  for  the  fan  could 
not  possibly  ha;ve  offered  itself.  While  the  finan- 
cial discussion  was  still  proceeding,  the  married 
lovers  were  ensconced  together  alone  in  the 
boudoir. 


MISS  OR  MRS.?  437 

Lady  Winwood  (privately  observant  of  their 
absence)  kept  her  eye  ou  the  corner,  watching 
Richard  Turlington. 

He  was  talking  earnestly — with  his  back  to- 
ward the  company.  He  neither  moved  nor 
looked  round.  It  came  to  Lord  Winwood's  turn 
to  speak.  He  preserved  the  same  position,  listen- 
ing. Sir  Joseph  took  up  the  conversation  next. 
Then  his  attention  wandered — he  knew  before- 
hand what  Sir  Joseph  would  say.  His  eyes 
turned  anxiously  toward  the  place  in  which  he 
had  left  Natalie.  Lord  Winwood  said  a  word. 
His  head  turned  back  again  toward  the  corner. 
Sir  Joseph  put  an  objection.  He  glanced  once 
more  over  his  shoulder — this  time  at  the  place 
in  which  Launce  had  been  standing.  The  next 
moment  his  host  recalled  his  attention,  and  made 
it  impossible  for  him  to  continue  his  scrutiny  of 
the  room.  At  the  same  time,  two  among  the 
evening  guests,  bound  for  another  party,  ap- 
proached to  take  leave  of  the  lady  of  the  house. 
Lady  Winwood  was  obliged  to  rise,  and  attend 
to  them.  They  had  something  to  say  to  her  be- 
fore they  left,  and  they  said  it  at  terrible  length, 
standing  so  as  to  intercept  her  view  of  the  pro- 
ceedings of  the  enemy.  When  she  had  got  rid 
of  them  at  last,  she  looked — and  behold  Lord 
Winwood  and  Sir  Joseph  were  the  only  occu- 
pants of  the  corner ! 

Delaying  one  moment,  to  set  the  "virtuoso" 
thundering  once  more,  Lady  Winwood  slipped 
out  of  the  room  and  crossed  the  lat;ding.  At  the 
entrance  to  the  empty  drawing-room  she  heard 


438  WORKS     OF    WILKIE     COLLINS. 

Turlington's  voice,  low  and  threatening,  in  the 
boudoir.  Jealousy  has  a  Second  Sight  of  its 
own.  He  had  looked  in  the  right  place  at  start- 
ing— and,  oh  heavens !  he  had  caught  them. 

Her  ladyship's  courage  was  beyond  dispute; 
but  she  turned  pale  as  she  approached  the  en- 
trance to  the  boudoir. 

There  stood  Natalie — at  once  angry  and  afraid 
— between  the  man  to  whom  she  was  ostensibly 
engaged,  and  the  man  to  whom  she  was  actually 
married.  Turlington's  rugged  face  expressed  a 
inartyrdom  of  suppressed  fury.  Launce — in  the 
act  of  offering  Natalie  her  fan — smiled,  with 
the  cool  superiority  of  a  man  who  knew  that 
he  had  won  his  advantage,  and  who  triumphed 
in  knowing  it. 

"I  forbid  you  to  take  your  fan  from  that 
man's  hands,"  said  Turlington,  speaking  to 
Natalie,  and  pointing  to  Launce. 

"Isn't  it  rather  too  soon  to  begin  '  forbid- 
ding' ?"  asked  Lady  Winwood,  good-humoredly. 

' '  Exactly  what  I  say ! ' '  exclaimed  Launce. 
"It  seems  necessary  to  remind  Mr.  Turlington 
that  he  is  not  married  to  Natalie  yet!" 

Those  last  words  were  spoken  in  a  tone  which 
made  both  the  wonien  tremble  inwardly  for  re- 
sults. Lady  Winwood  took  the  fan  from  Launce 
with  one  hand,  and  took  Natalie's  arm  with  the 
other. 

' '  There  is  your  fan,  my  dear, ' '  she  said,  in  her 
easy  off-hand  manner.  "Why  do  you  allow 
these  two  barbarous  men  to  keep  you  here  while 
the   gi-eat  Bootmann  is  playing  the  Nightmare 


MISS    OR    MRS.  ?  43!l 

Sonata  in  the  next  room?  Launce!  Mr.  Tur- 
lington !  follow  nie,  and  learn  to  be  musical  di- 
rectly !  You  have  only  to  shut  your  eyes,  and 
you  will  fancy  you  hear  four  modern  German 
composers  playing,  instead  of  one,  and  not  the 
ghost  of  a  melody  among  all  the  four."  She  led 
the  way  out  with  Natalie,  and  whispered,  "Did 
he  catch  you?"  Natalie  whispered  back,  "I 
heard  him  in  time.  He  only  caught  us  looking 
for  the  fan."  The  two  men  waited  behind  to 
have  two  words  together  alone  in  the  boudoir. 

"This  doesn't  end  here,  Mr.  Linzie!" 

Launce  smiled  satirically.  "For  once  I  agree 
with  you,"  he  answered.  "It  doesn't  end  here, 
as  you  say. ' ' 

Lady  Win  wood  stopped,  and  looked  back  at 
them  from  the  drawing-room  door.  They  were 
keeping  her  waiting — they  had  no  choice  but  to 
follow  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

Arrived  in  the  next  room,  both  Turlington  and 
Launce  resumed  their  places  among  the  guests 
with  the  same  object  in  view.  As  a  necessary 
result  of  the  scene  in  the  boudoir,  each  had  his 
own  special  remonstrance  to  address  to  Sir  Jo- 
seph. Even  here,  Launce  was  beforehand  with 
Turlington.  He  was  the  first  to  get  possession 
of  Sir  Joseph's  private  ear.  His  complaint  took 
the  form  of  a  protest  against  Turlington's  jeal- 
ousy, and  an  appeal  for  a  reconsideration  of  the 
sentence  which  excluded  him  from  Muswell  Hill. 
Watching  them  from  a  distance,  Turlington's 
suspicious  eye  detected  the  appearance  of  some- 
thing unduly  confidential  in  the  colloquy  be- 
Vol.  4  15— 


440  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

tween  the  two,  Under  cover  of  the  company, 
he  stole  behind  them  and  listened. 

The  great  Bootmann  had  arrived  at  that  part 
of  the  Nightmare  Sonata  in  which  musical 
sound,  produced  principally  with  the  left  hand, 
is  made  to  describe,  beyond  all  possibility  of 
mistake,  the  rising  of  the  moon  in  a  country 
church-yard  and  a  dance  of  Vampires  round  a 
maiden's  grave.  Sir  Joseph,  having  no  chance 
against  the  Vampires  in  a  whisper,  was  obliged 
to  raise  his  voice  to  make  himself  audible  in  an- 
swering and  comforting  Launce.  "I  sincerely 
sympathize  with  you,"  Turlington  heard  him 
say;  "and  Natalie  feels  about  it  as  I  do.  But 
Richard  is  an  obstacle  in  our  way.  We  must 
look  to  the  consequences,  my  dear  boy,  suppos- 
ing Richard  found  us  out,"  He  nodded  kindly 
to  his  nephew ;  and,  declining  to  pursue  the  sub- 
ject, moved  away  to  another  part  of  the  room. 

Turlington's  jealous  distrust,  wrought  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  irritability  for  weeks  past,  in- 
stantly associated  the  words  he  had  just  heard 
with  the  words  spoken  by  Launce  in  the  boudoir, 
which  had  reminded  him  that  he  was  not  mar- 
ried to  Natalie  yet.  Was  there  treachery  at 
work  under  the  surface?  and  was  the  object  to 
persuade  weak  Sir  Joseph  to  reconsider  his 
daughter's  contemplated  marriage  in  a  sense 
favorable  to  Launce?  Turlington's  blind  sus- 
picion overleaped  at  a  bound  all  the  manifest 
improbabilities  which  forbade  such  a  conclusion 
as  this.  After  ati  instant's  consideration  with 
himself,  he  decided  on  keeping  his  own  counsel, 


MISS   OR   MRS.  ?  441 

and  ou  putting  Sir  Joseph's  good  faith  then  and 
there  to  a  test  which  he  could  rely  on  as  certain 
to  take  Natalie's  father  by  surprise, 

"Graybrooke!" 

Sir  Joseph  started  at  the  sight  of  his  future 
son-in-law's  face. 

"My  dear  Richard,  yovi  are  looking  ver}" 
strangely!  Is  the  heat  of  the  room  too  much 
for  you?" 

"Never  mind  the  heat!  I  have  seen  enough 
to-night  to  justify  me  in  insisting  that  your 
daughter  and  Launcelot  Linzie  shall  meet  no 
more  between  this  and  the  day  of  my  marriage." 
Sir  Joseph  attempted  to  speak.  Turlington  de- 
clined to  give  him  the  opportunity.  ' '  Yes !  yes ! 
your  opinion  of  Linzie  isn't  mine,  I  know.  I 
saw  you  as  thick  as  thieves  together  just  now." 
Sir  Joseph  once  more  attempted  to  make  himself 
heard.  Wearied  by  Turlington's  perpetual  com- 
plaints of  his  daughter  and  his  nephew,  he  was 
sufficiently  irritated  by  this  time  to  have  re- 
ported what  Launce  had  actually  said  to  him  if 
he  had  been  allowed  the  chance.  But  Turlington 
persisted  in  going  on.  "I  cannot  prevent  Linzie 
from  being  received  in  this  house,  and  at  3'our 
sister's,"  he  said;  "but  I  can  keep  him  out  of 
my  house  in  the  country,  and  to  the  country  let 
us  go.  I  propose  a  change  in  the  arrangements. 
Have  you  any  engagement  for  the  Christmas 
holidays?" 

He  paused,  and  fixed  his  eyes  attentively  on 
Sir  Joseph.  Sir  Joseph,  looking  a  little  surprised, 
replied  briefly  that  he  had  no  engagement. 


443  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS, 

"In  that  case,"  resumed  Turlington,  "I  invite 
you  all  to  Somersetshire,  and  I  propose  that  the 
marriage  shall  take  place  from  my  house,  and 
not  from  yours.     Do  you  refuse?" 

"It  is  contrary  to  the  usual  course  of  proceed- 
ing in  such  cases,  Richard,"  Sir  Joseph  began. 

"Do  you  refuse?"  reiterated  Turlington.  "I 
tell  you  plainly,  I  shall  place  a  construction  of 
my  own  upon  your  motive  if  you  do." 

"No,  Richard,"  said  Sir  Joseph,  quietly,  "I 
accept. ' ' 

Turlington  drew  back  a  step  in  silence.  Sir 
Joseph  had  turned  the  tables  on  him,  and  had 
taken  him  by  surprise. 

"It  will  upset  several  plans,  and  be  strongly 
objected  to  by  the  ladies,"  proceeded  the  old 
gentleman.  "But  if  nothing  less  will  satisfy 
you,  I  say,  Yes!  I  shall  have  occasion,  when 
we  meet  to-morrow  at  Muswell  Hill,  to  appeal 
to  your  indulgence  under  circumstances  which 
may  greatly  astonish  you.  The  least  I  can  do, 
in  the  meantime,  is  to  set  an  example  of  friendly 
sympathy  and  forbearance  on  my  side.  No  more 
now,  Richard.     Hush!  the  music!" 

It  was  impossible  to  make  him  explain  him- 
self further  that  night.  Turlington  was  left  to 
interpret  Sir  Joseph's  mysterious  communica- 
tion with  such  doubtful  aid  to  success  as  his 
own  unassisted  ingenuity  might  afford. 

The  meeting  of  the  next  day  at  Muswell  Hill 
had  for  its  object — as  Turlington  had  already 
been  informed — the  drawing  of  Natalie's  mar- 
riage-settlement.    Was  the  question  of  money  at 


I 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  443 

the  bottom  of  Sir  Joseph's  contemplated  appeal 
to  his  indulgence?  He  thought  of  his  commer- 
cial position.  The  depression  in  the  Levant 
trade  still  continued.  Never  had  his  business 
at  any  previous  time  required  such  constant  at- 
tention, and  repaid  that  attention  with  so  little 
profit.  The  Bills  of  Lading  had  been  already 
used  by  the  firm,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  trade, 
to  obtain  possession  of  the  goods.  The  duplicates 
in  the  hands  of  Bui  pit  Brothers  were  literally 
waste  paper.  Repayment  of  the  loan  of  forty 
thousand  pounds  (with  interest)  was  due  in  less 
than  a  month's  time.  There  was  his  commercial 
position !  Was  it  possible  that  money-loving  Sir 
Joseph  had  any  modification  to  propose  in  the 
matter  of  his  daughter's  dowry?  The  bare  dread 
that  it  might  be  so  struck  him  cold.  He  quitted 
the  house — and  forgot  to  wish  Natalie  good- 
night. 

Meanwhile,  Launce  had  left  the  evening  part}' 
before  him — and  Launce  also  found  matter  for 
serious  reflection  presented  to  his  mind  before  he 
slept  that  night.  In  other  words,  he  found,  on 
reaching  his  lodgings,  a  letter  from  his  brother, 
marked  "private."  Had  the  inquiry  into  the 
secrets  of  Turlington's  early  life — now  prolonged 
over  some  weeks — led  to  positive  results  at  last? 
Launce  eagerly  opened  the  letter.  It  contained 
a  Report  and  a  Summary.  He  passed  at  once  to 
the  Summary,  and  read  these  words: 

"If  you  only  want  moral  evidence  to  satisfy 
your  own  mind,  your  end  is  gained.  There  is, 
morally,  no  doubt  that  Turlington  and  the  sea- 


444  WORKS    OF     WILKIE    COLLINS. 

captain  who  cast  the  foreign  sailor  overboard  to 
drown  are  one  and  the  same  man.  Legally,  the 
matter  is  beset  by  difficulties,  Turlington  having 
destroyed  all  provable  connection  between  his 
present  self  and  his  past  life.  There  is  only  one 
chance  for  us,  A  sailor  on  board  the  ship  (who 
was  in  his  master's  secrets)  is  supposed  to  be 
still  living  (under  his  master's  protection).  All 
the  black  deeds  of  Turlington's  early  life  are 
known  to  this  man.  He  can  prove  the  facts,  if 
we  can  find  him,  and  make  it  worth  his  while  to 
speak.  Under  what  alias  he  is  hidden  we  do 
not  know.  His  own  name  is  Thomas  Wildfang. 
If  we  are  to  make  the  attempt  to  find  him,  not  a 
moment  is  to  be  lost.  The  expenses  may  be  seri- 
ous. Let  me  know  whether  we  are  to  go  on,  or 
whether  enough  has  been  done  to  attain  the  end 
you  have  in  view." 

Enough  had  been  done — not  only  to  satisfy 
Launce,  but  to  produce  the  right  effect  on  Sir 
Joseph's  mind  if  Sir  Joseph  proved  obdurate 
when  the  secret  of  the  marriage  was  revealed. 
Launce  wrote  a  line  directing  the  stoppage  of 
the  proceedings  at  the  point  which  they  had  now 
reached.  "Here  is  a  reason  for  her  not  marry- 
ing Turlington,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  placed 
the  papers  under  lock  and  key.  "And  if  she 
doesn't  marry  Turlington,"  he  added,  with  a 
lover's  logic,  "why  shouldn't  she  marry  Me?" 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  445 

EIGHTH   SCENE. 

THE    LIBRARY. 

The  next  day  Sir  Joseph  Graybrooke,  Sir 
Joseph's  lawyer,  Mr.  Dicas  (highly  respectable 
and  immensely  rich),  and  Richard  Turlington 
were  assembled  in  the  library  at  Muswell  Hill, 
to  discuss  the  question  of  Natalie's  marriage- 
settlement. 

After  the  usual  preliminary  phrases  had  been 
exchanged,  Sir  Joseph  showed  some  hesitation 
in  openly  approaching  the  question  which  the 
little  party  of  three  had  met  to  debate.  He 
avoided  his  lawyer's  eye;  and  he  looked  at  Tur- 
lington rather  uneasily. 

"Richard,"  he  began  at  last,  "when  I  spoke 
to  you  about  your  marriage,  on  board  the  yacht, 
I  said  I  w^ould  give  my  daughter — "  Either  his 
courage  or  his  breath  failed  him  at  that  point. 
He  was  obliged  to  wait  a  moment  before  he  could 
go  on. 

"I  said  I  would  give  my  daughter  half  my 
fortune  on  her  marriage,"  he  resumed.  "For- 
give me,  Richard.     I  can't  do  it!" 

Mr.  Dicas,  waiting  for  his  instructions,  laid 
down  his  pen  and  looked  at  Sir  Joseph's  son-in- 
law  elect.     What  would  Mr.  Turlington  say? 

He  said  nothing.  Sitting  opposite  the  win- 
dow, he  rose  when  Sir  Joseph  spoke,  and  placed 
himself  at  the  other  side  of  the  table,  with  hi.s 
back  to  the  light. 


446  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"My  eyes  are  weak  this  morning-,"  he  said,  in 
an  unnaturally  low  tone  of  voice.  "The  light 
hurts  them." 

He  could  find  no  more  plausible  excuse  than 
that  for  concealing  his  face  in  shadow  from  the 
scrutiny  of  the  two  men  on  either  side  of  him. 
The  continuous  moral  irritation  of  his  unhappy 
courtship — a  courtship  which  had  never  ad- 
vanced beyond  the  frigid  familiarity  of  kissing 
Natalie's  hand  in  the  presence  of  others — had 
physically  deteriorated  him.  Even  his  hardy 
nerves  began  to  feel  the  long  strain  of  suspicion 
that  had  been  laid  unremittingly  on  them  for 
weeks  past.  His  power  of  self-control — he  knew 
it  himself — was  not  to  be  relied  on.  He  could 
hide  his  face :  he  could  no  longer  command  it. 

"Did  you  hear  what  I  said,  Richard?" 

"I  heard.     Goon." 

Sir  Joseph  proceeded,  gathering  confidence  as 
he  advanced. 

"Half  my  fortune!"  he  repeated.  "It's  part- 
ing with  half  my  life;  it's  saying  good-b}^  for- 
ever to  my  dearest  friend !  My  money  has  been 
such  a  comfort  to  me,  Richard ;  such  a  pleasant 
occupation  for  my  mind.  I  know  no  reading  so 
inte'resting  and  so  instructive  as  the  reading  of 
one's  Banker's  Book.  To  watch  the  outgoings 
on  one  side,"  said  Sir  Joseph,  with  a  gentle  and 
pathetic  solemnity,  "and  the  incomings  on  the 
other — the  sad  lessening  of  the  balance  at  one 
time,  and  the  cheering  and  delightful  growth  of 
it  at  another — what  absorbing  reading!  The 
best  novel  that  ever  was  written  isn't  to  be  men- 


MISS    OR    MRS.?  447 

tioned  in  a  breath  with  it.  I  can  not,  Richard,  I 
really  can  not^  see  my  nice  round  balance  shrink 
up  to  half  the  figure  that  I  have  been  used  to  for 
a  lifetime.  It  may  be  weak  of  me,"  proceeded 
Sir  Joseph,  evidently  feeling  that  it  was  not 
weak  of  him  at  all,  "but  we  all  have  our  tender 
place,  and  my  Banker's  Book  is  mine.  Besides, 
it  isn't  as  if  you  wanted  it.  If  you  wanted  it, 
of  course — ^but  you  don't  want  it.  You  are  a 
rich  man;  you  are  marrying  my  dear  Natalie 
for  love,  not  for  money.  You  and  she  and  my 
grandchildren  will  have  it  all  at  my  death.  It 
can  make  no  difference  to  you  to  wait  a  few 
years  till  the  old  man's  chair  at  the  fireside  is 
empty.  Will  jou  say  the  fourth  part,  Richard, 
instead  of  the  half?  Twenty  thousand,"  pleaded 
Sir  Joseph,  piteously.  "I  can  bear  twenty  thou- 
sand off.  For  God's  sake  don't  ask  me  for  more !" 

The  lips  of  the  lawyer  twisted  themselves  sourly 
into  an  ironical  smile.  He  was  quite  as  fond  of 
his  money  as  Sir  Joseph.  He  ought  to  have  felt 
for  his  client ;  but  rich  men  have  no  sympathy 
with  one  another.  Mr.  Dicas  openly  despised 
Sir  Joseph. 

There  was  a  pause.  The  robin-redbreasts  in 
the  shrubbery  outside  must  have  had  prodigious 
balances  at  their  bankers;  they  hopped  up  on 
the  window-sill  so  fearlessly;  they  looked  in 
with  so  little  respect  at  the  two  rich  men. 

"Don't  keep  me  in  suspense,  Richard,"  pro- 
ceeded Sir  Joseph.  "Speak  out.  Is  it  yes  or 
no?" 

Turlington  struck  his  hand  excitedlj^  on  the 


448  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

table,  and  burst  out  on  a  sudden  with  the  an- 
swer which  had  been  so  strangely  delayed. 

"Twenty  thousand  with  all  my  heart!"  he 
said.  "On  this  condition,  Graybrooke,  that 
every  farthing  of  it  is  settled  on  Natalie,  and  on 
her  children  after  her.  Not  a  half -penny  to  me !" 
he  cried  magnanimously,  in  his  brassiest  tones. 
"Not  a  half -penny  to  me!" 

Let  no  man  say  the  rich  are  heartless.  Sir 
Joseph  seized  his  son-in-law's  hand  in  silence, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

Mr.  Dicas,  habitually  a  silent  man,  uttered  the 
first  two  words  that  had  escaped  him  since  the 
business  began.  "Highly  creditable,"  he  said, 
and  took  a  note  of  his  instructions  on  the  spot. 

From  that  point  the  business  of  the  settlement 
flowed  sinoothly  on  to  its  destined  end.  Sir  Jo- 
seph explained  his  views  at  the  fullest  length, 
and  the  lawyer's  pen  kept  pace  with  him.  Tur- 
lington, remaining  in  his  place  at  the  table,  re- 
stricted himself  to  a  purely  passive  part  in  the 
proceedings.  He  answered  briefly  when  it  was 
absolutelj^  necessary  to  speak,  and  he  agreed  with 
the  two  elders  in  everything.  A  man  has  no 
attention  to  place  at  the  disposal  of  other  people 
when  he  stands  at  a  crisis  in  his  life.  Turling- 
ton stood  at  that  crisis,  at  the  trying  moment 
when  Sir  Joseph's  unexpected  proposal  pressed 
instantly  for  a  reply.  Two  merciless  alternatives 
confronted  him.  Either  he  must  repay  the  bor- 
rowed forty  thousand  pounds  on  the  day  when 
repayment  was  due,  or  he  must  ask  Bulpit 
Brothers  to  grant  him  an  extension  of  time,  and 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  449 

SO  inevitably  provoke  an  examination  into  the 
fraudulent  security  deposited  with  the  firm, 
which  could  end  in  but  one  way.  His  last,  lit- 
erally his  last  chance,  after  Sir  Joseph  had  di- 
minished the  promised  dowry  by  one  half,  was 
to  adopt  the  high-minded  tone  which  became  his 
position,  and  to  conceal  the  truth  until  he  could 
reveal  it  to  his  father-in-law  in  the  privileged 
character  of  Natalie's  husband.  "I  owe  forty 
thousand  pounds,  sir,  in  a  fortnight's  time,  and 
I  have  not  got  a  farthing  of  my  own.  Pay  for 
me,  or  you  will  see  your  son-in-law's  name  in 
the  Bankrupt's  List,"  For  his  daughter's  sake 
— who  could  doubt  it? — Sir  Joseph  would  pro- 
duce the  money.  The  one  thing  needful  was  to 
be  married  in  time.  If  either  by  accident  or 
treachery  Sir  Joseph  was  led  into  deferring  the 
appointed  day,  by  so  much  as  a  fortnight  only, 
the  fatal  "call"  would  come,  and  the  firm  of 
Pizzituti,  Turlington  &  Branca  would  appear  in 
the  Gazette. 

So  he  reasoned,  standing  on  the  brink  of  the 
terrible  discover}^  which  was  soon  to  reveal  to 
him  that  Natalie  was  the  wife  of  another  man. 

"Richard!" 

"Mr.  Turlington!" 

He  started,  and  roused  his  attention  to  present 
things.  Sir  Joseph  on  one  side,  and  the  lawyer 
on  the  other,  were  both  appealing  to  him,  and 
both  regarding  him  with  looks  of  amazement, 

"Have  you  done  with  the  settlement?"  he 
asked. 

"My  dear  Richard,  we  have  done  with  it  long 


450  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

since,"  replied  Sir  Joseph.  "Have  j'^ou  really 
not  heard  what  I  have  been  saying  for  the  last 
quarter  of  an  hour  to  good  Mr.  Dicashere?  What 
can  you  have  been  thinking  of?" 

Turlington  did  not  attempt  to  answer  the 
question.  "Am  I  interested,"  he  asked,  "in 
what  you  have  been  saying  to  Mr.  Dicas?" 

"You  shall  judge  for  yourself,"  answered  Sir 
Joseph,  mysteriously;  "I  have  been  giving  Mr. 
Dicas  his  instructions  for  making  my  Will.  I 
wish  the  Will  and  the  Marriage-Settlement  to  be 
executed  at  the  same  time.  Read  the  instruc- 
tions, Mr.  Dicas." 

Sir  Joseph's  contemplated  Will  proved  to  have 
two  merits — it  was  simple  and  it  was  short.  Ex- 
cepting one  or  two  trifling  legacies  to  distant  rel- 
atives, he  had  no  one  to  think  of  (Miss  Lavinia 
being  already  provided  for)  but  his  daughter 
and  the  children  who  might  be  born  of  her  mar- 
riage. In  its  various  provisions,  made  with  these 
two  main  objects  in  view,  the  Will  followed  the 
precedents  established  in  such  cases.  It  differed 
in  no  important  respect  from  the  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  other  wills  made  under  similar  circum- 
stances. Sir  Joseph's  motive  in  claiming  special 
attention  for  it  still  remained  unexplained,  when 
Mr.  Dicas  reached  the  clause  devoted  to  the  ap- 
pointment of  executors  and  trustees;  and  an- 
nounced that  this  portion  of  the  document  was 
left  in  blank. 

"Sir  Joseph  Graybrooke,  are  you  prepared  to 
name  the  persons  whom  you  appoint?"  asked  the 
lawyer. 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  451 

Sir  Joseph  rose,  apparently  for  the  purpose  of 
g-iving  special  importance  to  the  terms  in  which 
he  answered  his  lawyer's  question. 

"I  appoint,"  he  said,  "as  sole  executor  and 
trustee — Richard  Turlington." 

It  was  no  easy  matter  to  astonish  Mr.  Dicas. 
Sir  Joseph's  reply  absolutely  confounded  him. 
He  looked  across  the  table  at  his  client  and  deli  v- 
ored  himself  on  this  special  occasion  of  as  many 
as  three  words. 

"Are  you  mad?"  he  asked. 

Sir  Joseph's  healthy  complexion  slightly  red- 
dened. "I  never  was  in  more  complete  pos- 
session of  myself,  Mr.  Dicas,  than  at  this 
moment. ' ' 

Mr.  Dicas  was  not  to  be  silenced  in  that  way. 

"Are  you  aware  of  what  you  do,"  persisted 
the  lawyer,  "if  you  appoint  Mr,  Turlington  as 
sole  executor  and  trustee?  You  put  it  in  the 
power  of  your  daughter's  husband,  sir,  to  make 
away  with  every  farthing  of  your  money  after 
your  death." 

Turlington  had  hitherto  listened  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  interest  in  the  proceedings,  which 
he  assumed  as  an  act  of  politeness.  To  his  view, 
the  future  was  limited  to  the  date  at  which  Bul- 
pit  Brothers  had  a  right  to  claim  the  repayment 
of  their  loan.  The  Will  was  a  matter  of  no 
earthly  importance  to  him,  by  comparison  with 
the  infinitely  superior  interest  of  the  Marriage. 
It  was  only  when  the  lawyer's  brutally  plain 
language  forced  his  attention  to  it  that  the 
question  of  his  pecuniary  interest  in  his  father- 


453  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

in-law's  death  assumed  its  fit  position  in  his 
mind. 

His  color  rose;  and  he  too  showed  that  he  was 
offended  by  what  Mr.  Dicas  had  just  said. 

"Not  a  word,  Richard!  Let  me  speak  for  you 
as  well  as  for  myself ,"  said  Sir  Joseph.  "For 
seven  years  past,"  he  continued,  turning  to  the 
lawyer,  ' '  I  have  been  accustomed  to  place  the 
most  unlimited  trust  in  Richard  Turlington. 
His  disinterested  advice  has  enabled  me  largely 
to  increase  my  income,  without  placing  a  farth- 
ing of  the  principal  in  jeopardy.  On  more  than 
one  occasion,  I  have  entreated  him  to  make  use 
of  my  money  in  his  business.  He  has  invariably 
refused  to  do  so.  Even  his  bitterest  enemies, 
sir,  have  been  obliged  to  acknowledge  that  my 
interests  were  safe  when  committed  to  his  care. 
Am  I  to  begin  distrusting  him,  now  that  I  am 
about  to  give  him  my  daughter  in  marriage?  Am 
I  to  leave  it  on  record  that  I  doubt  him  for  the 
first  time — v/hen  my  Will  is  opened  after  my 
death?  No!  I  can  confide  the  management  of 
the  fortune  which  my  child  v/ill  inherit  after  me 
to  no  more  competent  or  more  honorable  hands 
than  the  hands  of  the  man  who  is  to  marry  her. 
I  maintain  my  appointment,  Mr.  Dicas !  I  per- 
sist in  placing  the  whole  responsibility  under  my 
Will  in  my  son-in-law's  care." 

Turlington  attempted  to  speak.  The  lawyer 
attempted  to  speak.  Sir  Joseph — with  a  certain 
simple  dignity  which  had  its  effect  on  both  of 
them — declined  to  hear  a  word  on  either  side. 
"No,  Richard!  as  long  as  I  am  alive  this  is  my 


Miss  OR   MRS.?  463 

business,  not  yours.  No,  Mr.  Dicas!  I  under- 
stand that  it  is  your  business  to  protest  profes- 
sionally. You  have  protested.  Fill  in  the  blank 
space  as  I  have  told  you.  Or  leave  the  instruc- 
tions on  the  table,  and  I  will  send  for  the  nearest 
solicitor  to  complete  them  in  your  place." 

Those  words  placed  the  lawyer's  position 
plainly  befcre  him.  He  had  no  choice  but  to  do 
as  he  was  bid,  or  to  lose  a  good  client.  He  did 
as  he  was  bid,  and  grimly  left  the  room. 

Sir  Joseph,  with  old-fashioned  politeness,  fol- 
lowed him  as  far  as  the  hall.  Returning  to  the 
library  to  say  a  few  friendly  words  before  finally 
dismissing  the  subject  of  the  Will,  he  found 
himself  seized  by  the  arm,  and  dragged  without 
ceremony,  in  Turlington's  powerful  grasp,  to  the 
window. 

"Richard!"  he  exclaimed,  "what  does  this 
mean?" 

"Look!"  cried  the  other,  pointing  through 
the  window  to  a  grassy  walk  in  the  grounds, 
bounded  on  either  side  by  shrubberies,  and  situ- 
ated at  a  little  distance  from  the  house.  "Who 
is  that  man? — quick!  before  we  lose  sight  of 
him — the  man  crossing  there  from  one  shrubbery 
to  the  other?"  Sir  Joseph  failed  to  recognize 
the  figure  before  it  disappeared.  Turlington 
whispered  fiercely,  close  to  his  ear — "Launcelot 
Linzie!" 

In  perfect  good  faith  Sir  Joseph  declared  that 
the  man  could  not  possibly  have  been  Launce. 
Turlington's  frenzy  of  jealous  suspicion  was  not 
to  be  so  easily  calmed.     He  asked  significantly 


454  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

for  Natalie.  She  was  reported  to  be  walking 
in  the  grounds.  "I  knew  it!"  he  said,  with  an 
oath — and  hurried  out  into  the  grounds  to  dis- 
cover the  truth  for  himself. 

Some  little  time  elapsed  before  he  came  back 
to  the  house.  He  had  discovered  Natalie — alone. 
Not  a  sign  of  Launce  had  rewarded  his  search. 
For  the  hundredth  time  he  had  offended  Nata- 
lie. For  the  hundredth  time  he  was  compelled 
to  appeal  to  the  indulgence  of  her  father  and 
her  aunt.  "It  won't  happen  again,"  he  said, 
sullenly  penitent.  "You  will  find  me  quite 
another  man  when  I  have  got  you  all  at  my 
house  in  the  country.  Mind !  "  he  burst  out, 
with  a  furtive  look,  which  expressed  his  in- 
veterate distrust  of  Natalie  and  of  every  one 
about  her.  "Mind!  it's  settled  that  you  all 
come  to  me  in  Somersetshire,  on  Monday 
next."  Sir  Joseph  answered  rather  dryly  that 
it  was  settled.  Turlington  turned  to  leave  the 
room — and  suddenlj^  came  back.  "It's  under- 
stood," he  went  on,  addressing  Miss  Lavinia, 
"that  the  seventh  of  next  month  is  the  date 
fixed  for  the  marriage.  Not  a  day  later!"  Miss 
Lavinia  replied,  rather  dryly  on  her  side,  "Of 
course,  Richard;  not  a  day  later."  He  mut- 
tered, "All  right" — and  hurriedly  left  them. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  Natalie  came  in, 
looking  a  little  confused. 

"Has  he  gone?"  she  asked,  whispering  to 
her  aunt. 

Relieved  on  this  point,  she  made  straight  for 
the  library — a  room  which  she  rarely  entered  at 


MISS    OR    MRS.?  455 

that  or  any  other  period  of  the  day.  Miss  La- 
vinia  followed  her,  curious  to  know  what  it 
meant.  Natalie  hurried  to  the  window,  and 
waved  her  handkerchief — evidently  making  a 
signal  to  some  one  outside.  Miss  Lavinia  in- 
stantly joined  her,  and  took  her  sharply  by 
the  hand. 

"Is  it  possible,  Natalie?"  she  asked.  "Has 
Launcelot  Linzie  reallj"  been  here,  unknown  to 
j^our  father  or  to  me?" 

"Where  is  the  harm  if  he  has?"  answered 
Natalie,  with  a  sudden  outbreak  of  temper, 
"Am  I  never  to  see  my  cousin  again,  because 
Mr.  Turlington  happens  to  be  jealous  of  him?" 

She  suddenly  turned  away  her  head.  The 
rich  color  flowed  over  her  face  and  neck.  Miss 
Lavinia,  proceeding  sternly  with  the  adminis- 
tration of  the  necessary  reproof,  was  silenced 
midway  by  a  new  change  in  her  niece's  variable 
temper.  Natalie  burst  into  tears.  Satisfied  with 
this  appearance  of  sincere  contrition,  the  old 
ladj^  consented  to  overlook  what  had  happened; 
and,  for  this  occasion  only,  to  keep  her  niece's 
secret.  They  would  all  be  in  Somersetshire,  she 
remarked,  before  any  more  breaches  of  discipline 
could  be  committed.  Richard  had  fortunately 
made  no  discoveries ;  and  the  matter  might  safely 
be  trusted,  all  things  considered,  to  rest  where  it 
was. 

Miss  Lavinia  might  possibly  have  taken  a  less 
hopeful  view  of  the  circumstances,  if  she  had 
known  that  one  of  the  men-servants  at  Muswell 
Hill  was  in  Richard  Turlington's  pay,  and  that 


456  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

this  servant  had  seen  Launce  leave  the  grounds 
by  the  back-garden  gate. 


NINTH   SCENE. 
the  drawing-room. 

"Amelia!" 

"Say  something."  .  • 

"Ask  him  to  sit  down." 

Thus  addressing  one  another  in  whispers,  the 
three  stepdaughters  of  Lady  Winwood  stood  be- 
wildered in  their  own  drawing-room,  helplessly 
confronting  an  object  which  appeared  before 
them  on  the  threshold  of  the  door. 

The  date  was  the  23d  of  December.  The  time 
was  between  two  and  three  in  the  afternoon. 
The  occasion  was  the  return  of  the  three  sisters 
from  the  Committee  meeting  of  the  Sacred  Con- 
certs' Societj^.  And  the  object  was  Richard 
Turlington. 

He  stood  hat  in  hand  at  the  door,  amazed  by 
his  reception.  "I  have  come  up  this  morning 
from  Somersetshire,"  he  said.  "Haven't  you 
heard?  A  matter  of  business  at  the  office  has 
forced  me  to  leave  my  guests  at  my  house  in  the 
country,  I  return  to  them  to-morrow.  When 
I  say  my  guests,  I  mean  the  Graybrookes. 
Don't  you  know  they  are  staying  with  me?  Sir 
Joseph  and  Miss  Lavinia  and  Natalie?"  On  the 
utterance  of  Natalie's  name,  the  sisters  roused 
themselves.      They  turned  about  and  regarded 


MISS  OR   MRS.?  457 

each  other  with  looks  of  dismay.  Turlington's 
patience  began  to  fail  him.  "Will  you  be  so 
good  as  to  tell  me  what  all  this  means?"  he 
said,  a  little  sharply.  "Miss  Lavinia  asked 
me  to  call  here  when  she  heard  I  was  coming  to 
town.  I  was  to  take  charge  of  a  pattern  for  a 
dress,  which  she  said  you  would  give  me.  You 
ought  to  have  received  a  telegram  explaining  it 
all,  hours  since.  Has  the  message  not  reached 
you?" 

The  leading  spirit  of  the  three  sisters  was  Miss. 
Amelia.     She  was  the  first  who  summoned  pres- 
ence of  mind  enough  to  give  a  plain  answer  to 
Turlington's  plain  question. 

"We  received  the  telegram  this  morning, "  she 
said.  "Something  has  happened  since  which 
has  shocked  and  surprised  us.  We  beg  your 
pardon."  She  turned  to  one  of  her  sisters.  "So- 
phia, the  pattern  is  ready  in  the  drawer  of  th^t 
table  behind  j^ou.     Give  it  to  Mr.  Turlington." 

Sophia  produced  the  packet.  Before  she  handed 
it  to  the  visitor,  she  looked  at  her  sister.  "Ought 
we  to  let  Mr.  Turlington  go,"  she  asked,  "as  if 
nothing  had  happened?" 

Amelia  considered  silently  with  herself.  Dor- 
othea, the  third  sister  (who  had  not  spoken  yet), 
came  forward  with  a  suggestion.  She  proposed, 
before  proceeding  further,  tj  inquire  whether 
Lady  Winwood  was  in  the  house.  The  idea  was 
instantly  adopted.  Sophia  rang  the  bell.  Amelia 
put  the  questions  when  the  servant  appeared. 

Lady  Winwood  had  left  the  house  for  a  drive 
immediately  after  luncheon.     Lord  Winwood — 


458  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

inquired  for  next — had  accompanied  her  lady- 
ship. No  message  had  been  left  indicating  the 
hour  of  their  return. 

The  sisters  looked  at  Turlington,  uncertain 
what  to  say  or  do  next.  Miss  Amelia  addressed 
him  as  soon  as  the  servant  had  left  the  room, 

"Is  it  possible  for  you  to  remain  here  until 
either  my  father  or  Lady  Win  wood  return?" 
she  asked. 

"It  is  quite  impossible.  Minutes  are  of  im- 
.portance  to  me  to-day." 

"Will  you  give  us  one  of  your  minutes?  We 
want  to  consider  something  which  we  may  have 
to  say  to  you  before  you  go." 

Turlington,  wondering,  took  a  chair.  Miss 
Amelia  put  the  case  before  her  sisters  from  the 
sternly  conscientious  point  of  view,  at  the  oppo- 
site end  of  the  room. 

"We  have  not  found  out  this  abominable  de- 
ception by  any  underhand  means,"  she  said. 
"The  discovery  has  been  forced  upon  us,  and 
we  stand  pledged  to  nobody  to  keep  the  secret. 
Knowing  as  we  do  how  cruelly  this  gentleman 
has  been  used,  it  seems  to  me  that  we  are  bound 
in  honor  to  open  his  eyes  to  the  truth.  If  we 
remain  silent  we  make  ourselves  Lady  Win- 
wood's  accomplices.  I,  for  one — I  don't  care 
what  may  come  of  it — refuse  to  do  that. ' ' 

Her  sisters  agreed  with  her.  The  first  chance 
their  clever  stepmother  had  given  them  of  assert- 
ing their  importance  against  hers  was  now  in 
their  hands.  Their  jealous  hatred  of  Lady  Win- 
wood  assumed  the  mask  of  Duty — duty  toward 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  450 

an  outraged  and  deceived  fellow-creature.  Could 
any  earthly  motive  be  purer  than  that?  "Tell 
him,  Amelia!"  cried  the  two  young  ladies,  with 
the  headlong  recklessness  of  the  sex  which  only 
stojjs  to  think  when  the  time  for  reflection  has 
gone  by. 

A  vague  sense  of  something  wrong  began  to 
stir  uneasily  in  Turlington's  mind. 

"Don't  let  me  hurry  you,"  he  said,  "but  if 
you  really  have  anything  to  tell  me — " 

Miss  Amelia  summoned  her  courage,  and  be- 
gan. 

"We  have  something  very  dreadful  to  tell 
you,"  she  said,  interrupting  him.  "You  have 
been  presented  in  this  house,  Mr.  Turlington,  as 
a  gentleman  engaged  to  marry  Lady  Win  wood's 
cousin.  Miss  Natalie  Graybrooke. "  She  paused 
there — at  the  outset  of  the  disclosure.  A  sudden 
change  of  expression  passed  over  Turlington's 
face,  which  daunted  her  for  the  moment.  "We 
have  hitherto  understood,"  she  went  on,  "that 
you  were  to  be  married  to  that  young  lady  early 
in  next  month." 

"Well?" 

He  could  say  that  one  word.  Looking  at  their 
pale  faces,  and  their  eager  eyes,  he  could  say  no 
more. 

"Take  care!"  whispered  Dorothea,  in  her  sis- 
ter's ear.  "Look  at  him,  Amelia!  Not  too 
soon." 

Amelia  went  on  more  carefully. 

"We  have  just  returned  from  a  musical  meet- 
ing," she  said.    "One  of  the  ladies  there  was  an 


460  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

acquaintance,  a  former  school-fellow  of  ours. 
She  is  the  wife  of  the  rector  of  St.  Columb  Major 
— a  large  church,  far  from  this — at  the  East  End 
of  London." 

"I  know  nothing  about  the  woman  or  the 
church,"  interposed  Turlington,  sternly. 

"I  must  beg  you  to  wait  a  little.  I  can't  tell 
you  what  I  want  to  tell  you  unless  I  refer  to  the 
rector's  wife.  She  knows  Lady  Winwood  by 
name.  And  she  heard  of  Lady  Winwood  re- 
cently under  very  strange  circumstances — cir- 
cumstances connected  with  a  signature  in  one 
•of  the  books  of  the  church." 

Turlington  lost  his  self-control.  "You  have 
got  something  against  my  Natalie,"  he  burst 
out;  "I  know  it  by  your  whispering,  I  see  it  in 
your  looks!     Say  it  at  once  in  plain  words. " 

There  was  no  trifling  with  him  now.  In  plain 
words  Amelia  said  it. 

^;  H:  *  *  *  H:  * 

There  was  silence  in  the  room.  They  could 
hear  the  sound  of  passing  footsteps  in  the  street. 
He  stood  perfectly  still  on  the  spot  where  they 
had  struck  him  dumb  by  the  disclosure,  support- 
ing himself  with  his  right  hand  laid  on  the  head 
of  a  sofa  near  him.  The  sisters  drew  back  hor- 
ror-struck into  the  furthest  corner  of  the  room. 
His  face  turned  them  cold.  Through  the  mute 
misery  which  it  had  expressed  at  first,  there  ap- 
peared, slowly  forcing  its  way  to  view,  a  look  of 
deadly  vengeance  which  froze  them  to  the  soul. 
They  whispered  feverishly  one  to  the  other,  with- 
out knowing  what  they  were  talking  of,  without 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  461 

hearing  their  own  voices.  One  of  them  said, 
"Ring  the  bell!"  Another  said,  "Ofeer  him 
something,  he  will  faint."  The  third  shuddered, 
and  repeated,  over  and  over  again,  "Why  did 
we  do  it?     Why  did  we  do  it?" 

He  silenced  them  on  the  instant  by  speaking 
on  his  side.  He  came  on  slowly,  by  a  step  at  a 
time,  with  the  big  drops  of  agony  falling  slowly 
over  his  rugged  face.  He  said,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper,  "Write  me  down  the  name  of  the 
church — there."  He  held  out  his  open  pocket- 
book  to  Amelia  while  he  spoke.  She  steadied 
herself,  and  wrote  the  address.  She  tried  to  say 
a  word  to  soften  him.  The  word  died  on  her 
lips.  There  was  a  light  in  his  eyes  as  they  looked 
at  her  which  transfigured  his  face  to  something 
superhuman  and  devilish.  She  turned  away 
from  him,  shuddering. 

He  put  the  book  back  in  his  pocket,  and  passed 
his  handkerchief  over  his  face.  After  a  moment 
of  indecision,  he  suddenly  and  swiftly  stole  out 
of  the  room,  as  if  he  was  afraid  of  their  calling 
somebody  in,  and  stopping  him.  At  the  door 
he  turned  round  for  a  moment,  and  said,  "You 
will  hear  how  this  ends.  I  wish  you  good-morn- 
ing." 

The  door  closed  on  him.  Left  by  themselves, 
they  began  to  realize  it.  They  thought  of  the 
consequences  when  his  back  was  turned  and  it 
was  too  late. 

The  Graybrookes!  Now  he  knew  it,  what 
would  become  of  the  Graybrookes?  What  would 
he   do  when  he  got  back?      Even  at  ordinary 


462  WORKS     OF     WILKIE    COLLINS. 

times — when  he  was  on  his  best  behavior — he 
was  a  rough  man.  What  would  happen?  Oh, 
good  God !  what  would  happen  when  he  and 
Natalie  next  stood  face  to  face?  It  was  a  lonely 
house — Natalie  had  told  them  about  it — no 
neighbors  near;  nobody  by  to  interfere  but  -the 
weak  old  father  and  the  maiden  aunt.  Some- 
thing ought  to  be  done.  Some  steps  ought  to  be 
taken  to  warn  them.  Advice — who  could  give 
advice?  Who  was  the  first  person  who  ought  to 
be  told  of  what  had  happened?  Lady  Win  wood? 
No !  even  at  that  crisis  the  sisters  still  shrank 
from  their  stepmother — still  hated  her  with  the 
old  hatred!  Not  a  word  to  her  !  They  owed  no 
duty  to  her  I  Who  else  could  they  appeal  to? 
To  their  father?  Yes!  There  was  the  person 
to  advise  them.  In  the  meanwhile,  silence  to- 
ward their  stepmother — silence  toward  every  one 
till  their  father  came  back ! 

They  waited  and  waited.  One  after  another 
the  precious  hours,  pregnant  with  the  issues 
of  life  and  death,  followed  each  other  on  the 
dial,  Lady  Winwood  returned  alone.  She  had 
left  her  husband  at  the  House  of  Lords.  Din- 
ner-time came,  and  brought  with  it  a  note  from 
his  lordship.  There  was  a  debate  at  the  House. 
Lady  Winwood  and  his  daughters  were  not  to 
wait  dinner  for  him. 


MISS  OR   MRS.?  463 

•  TENTH   SCENE. 

GREEN   ANCHOR   LANE. 

An  hour  later  than  the  time  at  which  he  had 
been  expected,  Richard  Turlington  appeared  at 
his  office  in  the  city. 

He  met  beforehand  all  the  inquiries  which  the 
marked  change  in  him  must  otherwise  have  pro- 
voked, by  announcing  that  he  was  ill.  Before 
he  proceeded  to  business,  he  asked  if  anybody 
was  waiting  to  see  him.  One  of  the  servants 
from  Muswell  Hill  was  waiting  with  another 
parcel  for  Miss  Lavinia,  ordered  by  telegram 
from  the  country  that  morning.  Turlington 
(after  ascertaining  the  servant's  name)  received 
the  man  in  his  private  room.  He  there  heard, 
for  the  first  time,  that  Launcelot  Linzie  had 
been  lurking  in  the  grounds  (exactly  as  he  had 
supposed)  on  the  day  when  the  lawyer  took  his 
instructions  for  the  Settlement  and  the  Will. 

In  two  hours  more  Turlington's  work  was 
completed.  On  leaving  the  office — as  soon  as  he 
was  out  of  sight  of  the  door — he  turned  eastward, 
instead  of  taking  the  way  that  led  to  his  own 
house  in  town.  Pursuing  his  course,  he  entered 
the  labyrinth  of  streets  which  led,  in  that  quarter 
of  East  London,  to  the  unsavory  neighborhood 
of  the  river-side. 

By  this  time  his  mind  was  made  up.  The 
forecast  shadow  of  meditated  crime  traveled  be- 


464  WORKS     OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

fore  him  alreadj'-,  as  he  threaded  his  way  among 
his  fellow-men. 

He  had  been  to  the  vestry  of  St.,  Columb  Ma- 
jor, and  had  satisfied  himself  that  he  was  misled 
by  no  false  report.  There  was  the  entry  in  the 
Marriage  Register.  The  one  unexplained  mys- 
tery was  the  mystery  of  Launce's  conduct  in 
permitting  his  wife  to  return  to  her  father's 
house.  Utterly  luiable  to  account  for  this  pro- 
ceeding, Turlington  could  only  accept  facts  as 
they  were,  and  determine  to  make  the  most  of 
his  time,  while  the  woman  who  had  deceived 
him  was  still  under  his  roof.  A  hideous  expres- 
sion crossed  his  face  as  he  realized  the  idea  that 
he  had  got  her  (unprotected  by  her  husband)  in 
his  house.  "When  Launcelot  Linzie  does  come 
to  claim  her,"  he  said  to  himself,  "he  shall  fiad 
I  have  been  even  with  him."  He  looked  at  his 
watch.  Was  it  possible  to  save  the  last  train 
and  get  back  that  night?  No — the  last  train  had 
gone.  Would  she  take  advantage  of  his  absence 
to  escape?  He  had  little  fear  of  it.  She  would 
never  have  allowed  her  aunt  to  send  him  to  Lord 
Winwood's  house,  if  she  had  felt  the  slightest 
suspicion  of  his  discovering  the  truth  in  that 
quarter.  Returning  by  the  first  train  the  next 
morning,  he  might  feel  sure  of  getting  back  in 
time.  Meanwhile,  he  had  the  hours  of  the  night 
before  him.  He  could  give  his  mind  to  the  seri- 
ous question  that  must  be  settled  before  he  left 
London — the  question  of  repaying  the  forty  thou- 
sand pounds.  There  was  but  one  way  of  getting 
the  money  now.     Sir  Joseph  had  executed  his 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  465 

Will;  Sir  Joseph's  death  would  leave  his  sole 
executor  and  trustee  (the  lawyer  had  said  it!) 
master  of  his  fortune.  Turlington  determined 
to  be  master  of  it  in  four-aud-twenty  hours — 
striking  the  blow,  without  risk  to  himself,  by 
means  of  another  hand.  In  the  face  of  the  prob- 
abilities, in  the  face  of  the  facts,  he  had  now 
firml}^  persuaded  himself  that  Sir  Joseph  was 
privy  to  the  fraud  that  had  been  practiced  on 
him.  The  Marriage-Settlement,  the  Will,  the 
presence  of  the  family  at  his  country  house — all 
these  he  believed  to  be  so  many  stratagems  in- 
vented to  keep  him  deceived  until  the  last  mo- 
ment. The  truth  was  in  those  words  which  he 
had  overheard  between  Sir  Joseph  and  Launce 
— and  in  Launce's  presence  (privately  encour- 
aged, no  doubt)  at  Muswell  Hill.  "Her  father 
shall  pay  me  for  it  doubly :  with  his  purse  and 
with  his  life."  With  that  thought  in  his  heart, 
Richard  Turlington  wound  his  way  through  the 
streets  by  the  river-side,  and  stopped  at  a  blind 
alley  called  Green  Anchor  Lane,  infamous  to 
this  day  as  the  chosen  resort  of  the  most  aban- 
doned wretches  whom  London  can  produce. 

The  policeman  at  the  corner  cautioned  him  as 
he  turned  into  the  alley.  "They  won't  hurt 
me  r^  he  answered,  and  walked  on  to  a  public- 
house  at  the  bottom  of  the  lane. 

The  landlord  at  the  door  silently  recognized 
him,  and  led  the  way  in.  They  crossed  a  room 
filled  with  sailors  of  all  nations  drinking;  as- 
cended a  staircase  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and 
stopped  at  the  door  of  the  room  on  the  second 


466  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

floor.  There  the  landlord  spoke  for  the  first 
time.  "He  has  outrun  his  allowance,  sir,  as 
usual.  You  will  find  him  with  hardly  a  rag  on 
his  back.  I  doubt  if  he  will  last  much  longer. 
He  had  another  fit  of  the  horrors  last  night,  and 
the  doctor  thinks  badl}^  of  him."  With  that  in- 
troduction he  opened  the  door,  and  Turlington 
entered  the  room. 

On  the  miserable  bed  lay  a  gray-headed  old 
man  of  gigantic  stature,  with  nothing  on  him 
but  a  ragged  shirt  and  a  pair  of  patched,  filthy 
trousers.  At  the  side  of  the  bed,  with  a  bottle 
of  gin  on  the  rickety  table  between  them,  sat  two 
hideous,  leering,  painted  monsters,  wearing  the 
dress  of  women.  The  smell  of  opium  was  in  the 
room,  as  well  as  the  smell  of  spirits.  At  Tur- 
lington's appearance,  the  old  man  rose  on  the 
bed  and  welcomed  him  with  greedy  eyes  and  out- 
stretched hand. 

"Money,  master!"  he  called  out  hoarsely.  "A 
crown  piece  in  advance,  for  the  sake  of  old 
times!" 

Turlington  turned  to  the  women  without  an- 
swering, purse  in  hand, 

"His  clothes  are  at  the  pawnbroker's,  of 
course.     How  much?" 

"Thirty  shillings." 

"Bring  them  here,  and  be  quick  about  it. 
You  will  find  it  worth  your  while  when  you 
come  back." 

The  women  took  the  pawnbroker's  tickets  from 
the  pockets  of  the  man's  trousers  and  hurried 
out. 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  467 

Turlington  closed  the  door,  and  seated  him- 
self by  the  bedside.  He  laid  his  hand  familiarly 
on  the  giant's  mighty  shoulder,  looked  him  full 
in  the  face,  and  said,  in  a  whisper, 

"Thomas  Wildfang!" 

The  man  started,  and  drew  his  huge  hairy 
hand  across  his  eyes,  as  if  in  doubt  whether  he 
was  waking  or  sleeping.  "It's  better  than  ten 
years,  master,  since  you  called  me  by  my  name. 
If  I  am  Thomas  Wildfang,  what  are  you?" 

"Your  captain,  once  more." 

Thomas  Wildfang  sat  up  on  the  side  of  the 
bed,  and  spoke  his  next  words  cautiously  in 
Turlington's  ear. 

"Another  man  in  the  way?"  ' 

"Yes." 

The  giant  shook  his  bald,  bestial  head  dolefully. 
"Too  late.     I'm  past  the  job.     Look  here." 

He  held  up  his  hand,  and  showed  it  trem- 
bling incessantly.  "I'm  an  old  man,"  he  said, 
and  let  his  hand  drop  heavily  again  on  the  bed 
beside  him. 

Turlington  looked  at  the  door,  and  whispered 
back, 

"The  man  is  as  old  as  you  are.  And  the 
money  is  worth  having." 

"How  much?" 

"A  hundred  pounds." 

The  eyes  of  Thomas  Wildfang  fastened  greed- 
ily on  Turlington's  face.  "Let's  hear,"  he  said. 
"Softly,  captain.     Let's  hear." 

******* 

When  the  women  came  back  with  the  clothes. 


468  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Turlington  had  left  the  room.  Their  promised 
reward  liy  waiting  for  them  on  the  table,  and 
Thomas  Wildfaug  was  eager  to  dress  himself 
and  be  gone.  They  could  get  but  one  answer 
from  him  to  eyerj  question  they  put.  He  had 
business  in  hand,  which  was  not  to  be  delayed. 
They  would  see  him  again  in  a  day  or  two,  with 
money  in  his  purse.  With  that  assurance  he 
took  his  cudgel  from  the  corner  of  the  room,  and 
stalked  out  swiftly  by  the  back  door  of  the  house 
into  the  night. 


ELEVENTH   SCENE. 

OUTSIDE      THE      HOUSE. 

The  evening  was  chilly,  but  not  cold  for  the 
time  of  year.  There  was  no  moon.  The  stars 
were  out,  and  the  wind  was  quiet.  Upon  the 
whole,  the  inhabitants  of  the  little  Somersetshire 
village  of  -Baxdale  agreed  that  it  was  as  fine  a 
Christmas-eve  as  they  could  remember  for  some 
5"ears  past. 

Toward  eight  in  the  evening  the  one  small 
street  of  the  village  was  empty,  except  at  that 
part  of  it  which  was  occupied  by  the  public- 
house.  For  the  most  part,  people  gathered  round 
their  firesides,  with  an  eye  to  their  suppers,  and 
watched  the  process  of  cooking  comfortably  in- 
doors. The  old  bare,  gray  church,  situated  at 
some  little  distance  from  the  village,  looked  a 
lonelier  object  than  usual  in  the  dim  starlight. 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  469 

The  vicai'age,  nestling  close  under  the  shadow 
of  the  church-tower,  threw  no  illumination  of 
fire-light  or  candle-light  on  the  dreary  scene. 
Tiie  clergyman's  shutters  fitted  well,  and  the 
clergyman's  curtains  were  closely  drawn.  The 
one  ray  of  light  that  cheered  the  wintry  dark- 
ness streamed  from  the  unguarded  window  of  a 
lonely  house,  separated  from  the  vicarage  by  the 
whole  length  of  the  church-yard.  A  man  stood 
at  the  window,  holding  back  the  shutter,  and 
looking  out  attentively  over  the  dim  void  of  the 
burial-ground.  The  man  was  Richard  Turling; 
ton.  The  room  in  which  he  was  watching  was 
a  room  in  his  own  house. 

A  momentary  spark  of  light  flashed  up,  as 
from  a  kindled  match,  in  the  burial-ground. 
Turlington  instantly  left  the  empty  room  in 
which  he  had  been  watching.  Passing  down 
the  back  garden  of  the  house,  and  crossing  a 
narrow  lane  at  the  bottom  of  it,  he  opened  a  gate 
in  a  low  stone  wall  beyond,  and  entered  the 
church-yard.  The  shadowy  figure  of  a  man  of 
great  stature,  lurking  among  the  graves,  ad- 
vanced to  meet  him.  Midway  in  the  dark  and 
lonel}^  place  the  two  stopped  and  consulted  to- 
gether in  whispers.     Turlington  spoke  first. 

"Have  you  taken  up  your  quarters  at  the  pub- 
lic-house in  the  village?" 

"Yes,  master." 

"Did  you  find  your  way,  while  the  daylight 
lasted,  to  the  deserted  malt-house  behind  my 
orchard  wall?" 

"Yes,  master." 


470  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"Now  listen — we  have  no  time  to  lose.  Hide 
there,  behind  that  monument.  Before  nine 
o'clock  to-night  you  will  see  me  cross  the  church- 
yard, as  far  as  this  place,  with  the  man  you  are 
to  wait  for.  He  is  going  to  spend  an  hour  with 
the  vicar,  at  the  house  yonder.  I  shall  stop 
short  here,  and  say  to  him,  'You  can't  miss  your 
way  in  the  dark  now — I  will  go  back.'  When  I 
am  far  enough  away  from  him,  I  shall  blow  a 
call  on  my  whistle.  The  moment  you  hear  the 
call,  follow  the  man,  and  drop  him  before  he 
gets  out  of  the  church-yard.  Have  you  got 
your  cudgel?" 

Thomas  Wildfang  held  up  his  cudgel.  Tur- 
lington took  him  by  the  arm,  and  felt  it  sus- 
piciously. 

"You  have  had  an  attack  of  the  horrors  al- 
ready," he  said.  "What  does  this  trembling 
mean?" 

He  took  a  spirit- flask  from  his  pocket  as  he 
spoke.  Thomas  Wildfang  snatched  it  out  of  his 
hand,  and  emptied  it  at  a  draught.  "All  right 
now,  master,"  he  said.  Turlington  felt  his  arm 
once  more.  It  was  steadier  already.  Wildfang 
brandished  his  cudgel,  and  struck  a  heavy  blow 
with  it  on  one  of  the  turf  mounds  near  them. 
"Will  that  drop  him,  captain?"  he  asked. 

Turlington  went  on  with  his  instructions. 

"Rob  him  when  you  have  dropped  him.  Take 
his  money  and  his  jewelry.  I  want  to  have  the 
killing  of  him  attributed  to  robbery  as  the  mo- 
tive. Make  sure  before  you  leave  him  that  he  is 
dead.     Then  go  to  the  malt-house.     There  is  no 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  471 

fear  of  your  being  seen;  all  the  people  will  be 
indoors,  keeping  Christmas-eve.  You  will  find 
a  change  of  clothes  hidden  in  the  malt-house, 
and  an  old  caldron  full  of  quicklime.  Destroy 
the  clothes  you  have  got  on,  and  dress  yourself 
in  the  other  clothes  that  j^ou  find.  Follow  the 
cross-road,  and  when  it  brings  you  into  the  high- 
road, turn  to  the  left;  a  four-mile  walk  will  take 
you  to  the  town  of  Harminster.  Sleep  there  to- 
night, and  travel  to  London  by  the  train  in  the 
morning.  The  next  day  go  to  my  office,  see  the 
head  clerk,  and  say,  'I  have  come  to  sign  my 
receipt. '  Sign  it  in  your  own  name,  and  you 
will  receive  your  hundred  pounds.  There  are 
your  instructions.     Do  you  understand  them?" 

Wildfang  nodded  his  head  in  silent  token  that 
he  understood,  and  disappeared  again  among  the 
graves.     Turlington  went  back  to  the  house. 

He  had  advanced  midway  across  the  garden, 
when  he  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  footsteps 
in  the  lane — at  that  part  of  it  which  skirted  one 
of  the  corners  of  the  house.  Hastening  forward, 
he  placed  himself  behind  a  projection  in  the 
wall,  so  as  to  see  the  person  pass  across  the 
stream  of  light  from  the  uncovered  window  of 
the  room  that  he  had  left.  The  stranger  was 
walking  rapidly.  All  Turlington  could  see  as 
he  crossed  the  field  of  light  was,  that  his  hat  was 
pulled  over  his  eyes,  and  that  he  had  a  thick 
beard  and  mustache.  Describing  the  man  to 
the  servant  on  entering  the  house,  he  was  in- 
formed that  a  stranger  with  a  large  beard  had 
been  seen  about  the  neighborhood  for  some  days 
Vol.  4  16— 


472  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

past.  The  account  lie  had  given  of  himself 
stated  that  he  was  a  surveyor,  engaged  in  tak- 
ing measurements  for  a  new  map  of  that  part  of 
the  country,  shortly  to  be  published. 

The  guilty  mind  of  Turlington  was  far  from 
feeling  satisfied  with  the  meager  description  of 
the  stranger  thus  rendered.  He  could  not  be 
engaged  in  surveying  in  the  dark.  What  could 
he  want  in  the  desolate  neighborhood  of  the  house. 
and  church-yard  at  that  time  of  night? 

The  man  wanted — -what  the  man  found  a  little 
lower  down  the  lane,  hidden  in  a  dismantled  part 
of  the  church-yard  wall — a  letter  from  a  young 
lady.  Read  by  the  light  of  the  pocket-lantern 
which  he  carried  with  him,  the  letter  first  con- 
gi'atulated  this  person  on  the  complete  successx>f 
his  disguise — and  then  promised  that  the  writer 
would  be  ready  at  her  bedroom  window  for  flight 
the  next  morning,  before  the  house  was  astir. 
The  signature  was  "Natalie,"  and  the  person 
addressed  was  "Dearest  Launce." 

In  the  meanwhile,  Turlington  barred  the  win- 
dow shutters  of  the  room,  and  looked  at  his 
watch.  It  wanted  only  a  quarter  to  nine  o'clock. 
He  took  his  dog- whistle  from  the  chimney-piece, 
and  turned  his  steps  at  once  in  the  direction  of 
the  drawing-room,  in  which  his  guests  were 
passing  the  evening. 


,     MISS  OR   MRS.?  473 

TWELFTH   SCENE. 

INSIDE      THE      HOUSE. 

The  scene  in  the  drawing-room  represented 
the  ideal  of  domestic  comfort.  The  fire  of  wood 
and  coal  mixed  burned  brightly ;  the  lamps  shed 
a  soft  glow  of  light;  the  solid  shutters  and  the 
thick  red  curtains  kept  the  cold  night  air  on  the 
outer  side  of  two  long  windows,  which  opened 
on  the  back  garden.  Snug  arm-chairs  were 
placed  in  every  part  of  the  room.  In  one  of  them 
Sir  Joseph  reclined,  fast  asleep ;  in  another,  Miss 
Lavinia  sat  knitting;  a  third  chair,  apart  from 
the  rest,  near  a  round  table  in  one  corner  of  the 
room,  was  occupied  by  Natalie.  Her  head  was 
resting  on  her  hand,  an  unread  book  lay  open  on 
her  lap.  She  looked  pale  and  harassed ;  anxiety 
and  suspense  had  worn  her  down  to  the  shadow 
of  her  former  self.  On  entering  the  room,  Tur- 
lington purposely  closed  the  door  with  a  bang. 
Natalie  started.  Miss  Lavinia  looked  up  re- 
proachfully. The  object  was  achieved  —  Sir 
Joseph  was  roused  from  his  sleep. 

"If  you  are  going  to  the  vicar's  to-night.  Gray- 
brooke,"  said  Turlington,  "it's  time  you  were 
off,  isn't  it?" 

Sir  Joseph  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  the 
clock  on  the  mantel- piece.  "Yes,  yes,  Richard," 
he  answered,  drowsily,  "I  suppose  I  must  go-. 
"Where  is  my  hat?" 

His  sister  and  his  daughter  both  joined  in  try- 


474  WORKS   OF    WILKIE   COLONS. 

ing  to  persuade  him  to  send  an  excuse  instead  of 
groping  his  way  to  the  vicarage  in  the  dark.  Sir 
Joseph  hesitated,  as  usual.  He  and  the  vicar 
had  run  up  a  sudden  friendship,  on  the  strength 
of  their  common  enthusiasm  for  the  old-fashioned 
game  of  backgammon.  Victorious  over  his  op- 
ponent on  the  previous  evening  at  Turlington's 
house,  Sir  Joseph  had  promised  to  pass  that 
evening  at  the  vicarage,  and  give  the  vicar  his 
revenge.  Observing  his  indecision,  Turlington 
cunningly  irritated  him  by  affecting  to  believe 
that  he  was  really  unwilling  to  venture  out  in 
the  dark.  "I'll  see  3^ou  safe  across  the  church- 
yard," he  said;  "and  the  vicar's  servant  will 
see  you  safe  back."  The  tone  in  which  bespoke 
instantly  roused  Sir  Joseph.  "I  am  not  in  my 
second  childhood  yet,  Richard,"  he  replied,  tes- 
tily. "I  can  find  my  way  by  myself."  He 
kissed  his  daughter  on  the  forehead.  "No  fear, 
Natalie.  I  shall  be  back  in  time  for  the  mulled 
clai'et.  No,  Richard,  I  won't  trouble  you."  He 
kissed  his  hand  to  his  sister  and  went  out  into 
the  hall  for  his  hat :  Turlington  following  him 
with  a  rough  apology,  and  asking  as  a  favor  to 
be  permitted  to  accompany  him  part  of  the  way 
only.  The  ladies,  left  behind  in  the  drawing- 
room,  heard  the  apology  accepted  by  kind-hearted 
Sir  Joseph.     The  two  went  out  together. 

"Have you  noticed  Richard  since  his  return?" 
asked  Miss  Lavinia.  "I  fancy  he  must  have 
heard  bad  news  in  London.  He  looks  as  if  he 
had  something  on  his  mind." 

"I  haven't  remarked  it,  aunt." 


MISS   OR    MRS.  ?  475 

For  tlio  time,  no  more  was  said.  Miss  Lavinia 
went  monotonously  on  with  her  knitting.  Natalie 
pursued  her  own  anxious  thoughts  over  the  un- 
read pages  of  the  book  in  her  lap.  Suddenly  tho 
deep  silence  out  of  doors  and  in  was  broken  by  a 
shrill  whistle,  sounding  from  the  direction  of  the 
church-yard.  Natalie  started  with  a  faint  cry 
of  alarm.  Miss  Lavinia  looked  up  from  her 
knitting. 

"My  dear  child,  your  nerves  must  be  sadly  out 
of  order.     What  is  there  to  be  frightened  at?" 

"I  am  not  very  well,  aunt.  It  is  so  still  here 
at  night,  the  slightest  noises  startle  me." 

There  was  another  interval  of  silence.  It  was 
past  nine  o'clock  when  they  heard  the  back  door 
opened  and  closed  again.  Turlington  came  hur- 
riedly into  the  drawing-room,  as  if  he  had  some 
reason  for  wishing  to  rejoin  the  ladies  as  soon  as 
possible.  To  the  surprise  of  both  of  them,  he 
sat  down  abruptly  in  the  corner,  with  his  face 
to  the  wall,  and  took  up  the  newspaper,  without 
casting  a  look  at  them  or  uttering  a  word. 

"Is  Joseph  safe  at  the  vicarage?"  asked  Miss 
Lavinia. 

"All  right."  He  gave  the  answer  in  a  short, 
surl}^  tone,  still  without  looking  round. 

Miss  Lavinia  tried  him  again.  "Did  you  hear 
a  whistle  while  you  were  out?  It  quite  startled 
Natalie  in  the  stillness  of  this  place." 

He  turned  half-way  round.  "My  shepherd,  I 
suppose,"  he  said  after  a  pause — "whistling  for 
his  dog."  He  turned  back  again  and  immersed 
himself  in  his  newspaper. 


476  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS, 

Miss  Lavinia  beckoned  to  her  niece  and  pointed 
significantly  to  Turlington.  After  one  reluctant 
look  at  him,  Natalie  laid  her  head  wearily  on 
her  aunt's  shoulder.  "Sleepy,  my  dear?"  whis- 
pered the  old  lady.  "Uneasy,  aunt — I  don't 
know  why,"  Natalie  whispered  back.  "I  would 
give  the  world  to  be  in  London,  and  to  hear  the 
carriages  going  by,  and  the  people  talking  in  the 
street.  ' 

Turlington  suddenly  dropped  his  newspaper. 
"What's  the  secret  between  you  two?"  he  called 
out  roughly.   "What  are  you  whispering  about?" 

"We  wish  not  to  disturb  j^ou  over  your  read- 
ing, that  is  all,"  said  Miss  Lavinia,  coldly. 
"Has  anj^thing  happened  to  vex  you,  Richard?" 

"What  the  devil  makes  you  think  that?" 

The  old  lady  was  offended,  and  showed  it  by 
saying  nothing  more.  Natalie  nestled  closer  to 
her  aunt.  One  after  another  the  clock  ticked  off 
the  minutes  with  painful  distinctness  in  the  still- 
ness of  the  room.  Turlington  suddenly  threw 
aside  the  newspaper  and  left  his  corner.  "Let's 
be  good  friends !  "  he  burst  out,  with  a  clumsj^ 
assumption  of  gayety.  "This  isn't  keeping 
Christmas-eve.  Let's  talk  and  be  sociable. 
Dearest  Natalie!"  He  threw  his  arm  roughly 
round  Natalie,  and  drew  her  by  main  force  awa}^ 
from  her  aunt.  She  turned  deadly  pale,  and 
struggled  to  release  herself.  "I  am  suffering — 
I  am  ill — let  me  go!"  He  was  deaf  to  her  en- 
treaties. "What!  your  husband  that  is  to  bo, 
treated  in  this  way?  Mustn't  I  have  a  kiss? — I 
will!"     He  held  her  closer  with  one  hand,  and, 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  47? 

seizing  her  head  with  the  other,  tried  to  turn  her 
lips  to  him.  She  resisted  with  the  inbred  nervous 
strength  which  the  weakest  woman  living  has 
in  reserve  when  she  is  outraged.  Half  indignant, 
half  terrified,  at  Turlington's  roughness,  Miss 
Lavinia  rose  to  interfere.  In  a  moment  more  he 
would  have  had  two  women  to  overpower  instead 
of  one,  when  a  noise  outside  the  window  sud- 
denly suspended  the  ignoble  struggle. 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  gravel- 
walk  which  ran  between  the  house  wall  and  the 
garden  lawn,  It  was  followed  by  a  tap — a  single 
faint  tap,  no  more — on  one  of  the  panes  of  glass. 

They  all  three  stood  still.  For  a  moment  more 
nothing  was  audible.  Then  there  was  a  heavy 
shock,  as  of  something  falling  outside.  Then  a 
groan,  then  another  interval  of  silence — a  long 
silence,  interrupted  no  more. 

Turlington's  arm  dropped  from  Natalie.  She 
drew  back  to  her  aunt.  Looking  at  him  instinct- 
ively, in  the  natural  expectation  that  he  would 
take  the  lead  in  penetrating  the  m.ystery  of  what 
had  happened  outside  the  window,  the  two  wo- 
men were  thunderstruck  to  see  that  he  was,  to 
all  appearance,  even  more  startled  and  more 
helpless  than  they  were.  "Richard,"  said  Miss 
Lavinia,  pointing  to  the  window,  "there  is  some- 
thing wrong  out  there.  See  what  it  is."  He 
stood  motionless,  as  if  he  had  not  heard  her,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  window,  his  face  livid  with 
terror. 

The  silence  outside  was  broken  once  more ;  this 
time  by  a  call  for  help. 


478  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

A  cry  of  horror  burst  from  Nathalie.  The  voice 
outside — rising  wildly,  then  suddenly  dying 
away  again — was  not  entirely  strange  to  her 
ears.  She  tore  aside  the  curtain.  With  voice 
and  hand  she  roused  her  aunt  to  help  her.  The 
two  lifted  the  heavy  bar  from  its  socket ;  they 
opened  the  shutters  and  the  window.  The  cheer- 
ful light  of  the  room  flowed  out  over  the  body  of 
a  prostrate  man,  lying  on  his  face.  They  turned 
the  man  over.     Natalie  lifted  his  head , 

Her  father ! 

His  face  was  bedabbled  with  blood.  A  wound, 
a  frightful  wound,  was  visible  on  the  side  of  his 
bare  head,  high  above  the  ear.  He  looked  at 
her,  his  eyes  recognized  her,  before  he  fainted 
again  in  her  arms.  His  hands  and  his  clothes 
were  covered  with  earth  stains.  He  must  have 
traversed  some  distance ;  in  that  dreadful  con- 
dition he  must  have  faltered  and  fallen  more 
than  once  before  he  reached  the  house.  His  sis- 
ter wiped  the  blood  from  his  face.  His  daughter 
called  on  him  frantically  to  forgive  her  before 
he  died — the  harmless,  gentle,  kind-hearted  fa- 
ther, who  had  never  said  a  hard  word  to  her! 
The  father  whom  she  had  deceived ! 

The  terrified  servants  hurried  into  the  room. 
Their  appearance  roused  their  master  from  the 
extraordinary  stupor  that  had  seized  him.  He 
was  at  the  window  before  the  footman  could  get 
there.  The  two  lifted  Sir  Joseph  into  the  room, 
and  laid  him  on  the  sofa.  Natalie  knelt  hj  him, 
supporting  his  head.  Miss  Lavinia  stanched  the 
flowing    blood    with    her    handkerchief.      The 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  479 

women- servants  brought  linen  and  cold  water. 
The  man  hurried  away  for  the  doctor,  who  lived 
on  the  other  side  of  the  village.  Left  alone  again 
with  Turlington,  Natalie  noticed  that  his  eyes 
were  fixed  in  immovable  scrutiny  on  her  father's 
head.  He  never  said  a  word.  He  looked,  looked, 
looked  at  the  wound. 

The  doctor  arrived.  Before  either  the  daugh- 
ter or  the  sister  of  the  injured  man  could  put  the 
question,  Turlington  put  it— "Will  he  Hve  or 
die?" 

The  doctor's  careful  finger  probed  the  wound. 
"Make  your  minds  easy.  A  little  lower  down, 
or  in  front,  the  blow  might  have  been  serious. 
As  it  is,  there  is  no  harm  done.  Keep  him  quiet, 
and  he  will  be  all  right  again  in  two  or  three 
days." 

Hearing  those  welcome  words,  Natalie  and 
her  aunt  sank  on  their  knees  in  silent  gratitude. 
After  dressing  the  wound,  the  doctor  looked 
round  for  the  master  of  the  house.  Turlington, 
who  had  been  so  breathlessly  eager  but  a  few 
minutes  since,  seemed  to  have  lost  all  interest  in 
the  case  now.  He  stood  apart,  at  the  window, 
looking  out  toward  the  church-yard,  thinking! 
The  questions  which  it  was  the  doctor's  duty  to 
ask  were  answered  by  the  ladies.  The  servants 
assisted  in  examining  the  injured  man's  clothes: 
they  discovered  that  his  watch  and  purse  were 
both  missing.  When  it  became  necessary  to 
carry  him  upstairs,  it  was  the  footman  who  as- 
sisted the  doctor.  The  footman's  master,  with- 
out  a    word  of   explanation,   walked   out   bare- 


480  WORKS    OF    WILKIB    COLLINS. 

headed  into  the  back  garden,  on  the  search,  as 
the  doctor  and  the  servants  supposed,  for  some 
trace  of  the  robber  who  had  attempted  Sir  Jo- 
seph's life. 

His  absence  was  hardly  noticed  at  the  time. 
The  difficulty  of  conveying  the  wounded  man  to 
his  room  absorbed  the  attention  of  all  the  persons 
present. 

Sir  Joseph  partially  recovered  his  senses  while 
they  were  taking  him  up  the  steep  and  narrow 
stairs.  Carefully  as  they  carried  the  patient,  the 
motion  wrung  a  groan  from  him  before  they 
reached  the  top.  The  bedroom  corridor,  in  the 
rambling,  irregularly  built  house,  rose  and  fell 
on  different  levels.  At  the  door  of  the  first  bed- 
chamber the  doctor  asked  a  little  anxiously  if 
that  was  the  room.  No;  there  were  three  more 
stairs  to  go  down,  and  a  corner  to  turn,  before 
they  could  reach  it.  The  first  room  was  Natalie's. 
She  instantly  offered  it  for  her  father's  use.  The 
doctor  (seeing  that  it  was  the  airiest  as  well  as 
the  nearest  room)  accepted  the  proposal.  Sir 
Joseph  had  been  laid  comfortably  in  his  daugh- 
ter's bed;  the  doctor  had  just  left  them,  with 
renewed  assurances  that  they  need  feel  no  anxi- 
ety, when  they  heard  a  heavy  step  below  stairs. 
Turlington  had  re-entered  the  house. 

(He  had  been  looking,  as  they  had  supposed, 
for  the  ruffian  who  had  attacked  Sir  Joseph; 
with  a  motive,  however,  for  the  search  at  which 
it  was  impossible  for  other  persons  to  guess.  His 
own  safety  was  now  bound  up  in  the  safety  of 
Thomas  Wildfang.     As  soon  as  he  was  out  of 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  481 

sight  in  the  darkness,  he  made  straight  for  the 
malt-house.  The  change  of  clothes  was  there 
untouched;  not  a  trace  of  his  accomplice  was  to 
be  seen.  Where  else  to  look  for  him  it  was  im- 
possible to  tell.  Turlington  had  no  alternative 
but  to  go  back  to  the  house,  and  ascertain  if  sus- 
picion had  been  aroused  in  his  absence. ) 

He  had  only  to  ascend  the  stairs,  and  to  see, 
through  the  open  door,  that  Sir  Joseph  had  been 
placed  in  his  daughter's  room. 

"What  does  this  mean?"  he  asked,  roughly. 

Before  it  was  possible  to  answer  him  the  foot- 
man appeared  with  a  message.  The  doctor  had 
come  back  to  the  door  to  say  that  he  would  take 
on  himself  the  necessary  duty  of  informing  the 
constable  of  what  had  happened,  on  his  return 
to  the  village.  Turlington  started  and  changed 
color.  If  Wildfang  was  found  by  others,  and 
questioned  in  his  employer's  absence,  serious 
consequences  might  follow.  "The  constable  is 
my  business,"  said  Turlington,  hurriedly  de- 
scending the  stairs;  "I'll  go  with  the  doctor." 
They  heard  him  open  the  door  below,  then  close 
it  again  (as  if  some  sudden  thought  had  struck 
him),  and  call  to  the  footman.  The  house  was 
badly  provided  with  servants'  bedrooms.  The 
women-servants  only  slept  indoors.  The  foot- 
man occupied  a  room  over  the  stables.  Natalie 
and  her  aunt  heard  Turlington  dismiss  the  man 
for  the  night,  an  hour  earlier  than  usual  at  least. 
His  next  proceeding  was  stranger  still.  Looking 
cautiously  over  the  stairs,  Natalie  saw  him  lock 
all  the  doors  on  the  ground -floor  and  take  out  the 


482  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

keys.  "When  he  went  -awslj,  she  heard  him  lock 
the  front  door  behind  him.  Incredible  as  it 
seemed,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  the  fact — 
the  inmates  of  the  house  were  imprisoned  till 
he  came  back.     What  did  it  mean? 

(It  meant  that  Turlington's  vengeance  still  re- 
mained to  be  wreaked  on  the  woman  who  had 
deceived  him.  It  meant  that  Sir  Joseph's  life 
still  stood  between  the  man  who  had  compassed 
his  death  and  the  money  which  the  man  was  re- 
solved to  have.  It  meant  that  Richard  Turling- 
ton was  driven  to  bay,  and  that  the  horror  and 
the  peril  of  the  night  were  not  at  an  end  yet.) 

Natalie  and  her  aunt  looked  at  each  other 
across  the  bed  on  which  Sir  Joseph  lay.  He  had 
fallen  into  a  kind  of  doze;  no  enlightenment 
could  come  to  them  from  him.  The}'  could  only 
ask  each  other,  with  beating  hearts  and  baffled 
minds,  what  Richard's  conduct  meant — they 
could  only  feel  instinctively^  that  some  dreadful 
discovery  was  hanging  over  them.  The  aunt 
was  the  calmer  of  the  two — there  was  no  secret 
weighing  heavily  on  her  conscience.  She  could 
feel  the  consolations  of  religion.  "Our  dear  one 
is  spared  to  us,  my  love,"  said  the  old  lady, 
gently.  "God  has  been  good  to  us.  We  are  in 
his  hands.    If  we  know  that,  we  know  enough." 

As  she  spoke  there  was  a  loud  ring  at  the  door- 
bell. The  women-servants  crowded  into  the  bed- 
room in  alarm.  Strong  in  numbers,  and  encour- 
aged by  Natalie —  who  roused  herself  and  led  the 
way — the}^  confronted  the  risk  of  opening  the 
window  and  of  venturing  out  on  the  balcony 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  483 

which  extended  along  that  side  of  the  house.  A 
man  was  dimly  visible  below.  He  called  to  them 
in  thick,  unsteady  accents.  The  servants  recog- 
nized him :  he  was  the  telegraphic  messenger 
from  the  railway.  They  went  down  to  speak  to 
him — and  returned  with  a  telegram  which  had 
been  pushed  in  under  the  door.  The  distance 
from  the  station  was  considerable ;  the  messenger 
had  been  "keeping  Christmas''  in  more  than  one 
beer-shop  on  his  way  to  the  house ;  and  the  de- 
li very  of  the  telegram  had  been  delayed  for  some 
hours.  It  was  addressed  to  Natalie.  She  opened 
it — looked  at  it — dropped  it — and  stood  speech- 
less; her  lips  parted  in  hjrror,  her  eyes  staring 
vacantl}"  straight  before  her. 

Miss  Lavinia  took  the  telegram  from  the  floor, 
and  read  these  lines : 

"Lady  Win  wood,  Hertford  Street,  London. 
To  Natalie  Graybrooke,  Church  Meadows,  Bax- 
dale,  Somersetshire,  Dreadful  news.  R.  T.  has 
discovered  your  marriage  to  Launce.  The  truth 
has  been  kept  from  me  till  to-day  (2'4th).  Instant 
flight  with  your  husband  is  your  only  chance.  I 
would  have  communicated  with  Launce,  but  I 
do  not  know  his  address.  You  will  receive  this, 
I  hope  and  believe,  before  R.  T.  can  return  to 
Somersetshire.  Telegraph  back,  I  entreat  you, 
to  say  that  you  are  safe.  I  shall  follow  my 
message  if  I  do  not  hear  from  you  in  reasonable 
time." 

Miss  Lavinia  lifted  her  gray  head,  and  looked 
at  her  niece.  "Is  this  true?"  she  said — and 
pointed  to  the  venerable  face  laid  back,  white, 


484  WORKS     OF    WILKIE     COLLINS. 

on  the  white  pillow  of  the  bed.  Natalie  sank 
forward  as  her  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  her  aunt. 
Miss  Lavinia  saved  her  from  falling  insensible 
on  the  floor. 

The  confession  had  been  made.  -  The  words  of 
penitence  and  the  words  of  pardon  had  been 
spoken.  The  peaceful  face  of  the  father  still  lay 
hushed  in  rest.  One  by  one  the  minutes  suc- 
ceeded each  other  uneventfully  in  the  deep  tran- 
quillity of  the  night.  It  was  almost  a  relief  when 
the  silence  was  disturbed  once  more  by  another 
sound  outside  the  house.  A  pebble  was  thrown 
up  at  the  window,  and  a  voice  called  out  cau- 
tiously, "Miss  Lavinia!" 

They  recognized  the  voice  of  the  man-servant, 
and  at  once  opened  the  window. 

He  had  something  to  say  to  the  ladies  in  pri- 
vate. How  could  he  say  it?  A  domestic  cir- 
cumstance which  had  been  marked  by  Launce, 
as  favorable  to  the  contemplated  elopement,  was 
now  noticed  by  the  servant  as  lending  itself  read- 
ily to  effecting  the  necessary  communication 
with  the  ladies.  The  lock  of  the  gardener's  tool- 
house  (in  the  shrubbery  close  by)  was  under  re- 
pair; and  the  gardener's  ladder  was  accessible 
to  any  one  who  wanted  it.  At  the  short  height 
of  the  balcony  from  the  ground,  the  ladder  was 
more  than  long  enough  for  the  purpose  required. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  servant  had  mounted  to 
the  balcony,  and  could  speak  to  Natalie  and  her 
aunt  at  the  window. 

"I  can't  rest  quiet,"  said  the  man.     "I'm  oft 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  485 

on  the  sly  to  see  what's  going  on  down  in  the 
village.  It's  hard  on  ladies  like  you  to  be  locked 
in  here.  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  either  of 
you?" 

Natalie  took  up  Lady  Winwood's  telegram. 
" Launce  ought  to  see  this,"  she  said  to  her  aunt. 
"He  will  be  here  at  daybreak,"  she  added,  in  a 
whisper,  "if  I  don't  tell  him  what  has  happened. ' ' 

Miss  Lavinia  turned  pale.  "If  he  and  Rich- 
ard meet — "  she  began.  "Tellhim!"  she  added, 
hurriedly — "tell  him  before  it  is  too  late!" 

Natalie  wrote  a  few  lines  (addressed  to  Launce 
in  his  assumed  name  at  his  lodgings  in  the  vil- 
lage) inclosing  Lady  Winwood's  telegram,  and 
entreating  him  to  do  nothing  rash.  When  the 
servant  had  disappeared  with  the  letter,  there 
was  one  hope  in  her  mind  and  in  her  aunt's  mind, 
which  each  was  ashamed  to  acknowledge  to  the 
other — the  hope  that  Launce  would  face  the  very 
danger  that  they  dreaded  for  him,  and  come  to 
the  house. 

They  had  not  been  long  alone  again,  when  Sir 
Joseph  drowsily  opened  his  eyes  and  asked  what 
they  were  doing  in  his  room.  They  told  him 
gently  that  he  was  ill.  He  pvit  his  hand  up  to 
his  head,  and  said  they  were  right,  and  so 
dropped  off  again  into  slumber.  Worn  out  by 
the  emotions  through  which  they  had  passed,  the 
two  women  silently  waited  for  the  march  of 
events.  The  same  stupor  of  resignation  pos- 
sessed them  •  both.  They  had  secured  the  door 
and  the  window.  They  had  prayed  together. 
They  had  kissed  the  quiet  face  on  the  pillow. 


486  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

They  had  said  to  each  other,  "We  will  live  with 
him  or  die  with  him  as  God  pleases."  Miss 
Lavinia  sat  by  the  bedside.  Natalie  was  on  a 
stool  at  her  feet — with  her  eyes  closed,  and  her 
head  on  her  aunt's  knee. 

Time  went  on.  The  clock  in  the  hall  had 
struck — ten  or  eleven,  they  were  not  sure  which 
— when  they  heard  the  signal  which  warned 
them  of  the  servant's  return  from  the  village. 
He  brought  news,  and  more  than  news;  he 
brought  a  letter  from  Launce. 

Natalie  read  these  lines : 

"I  shall  be  with  you,  dearest,  almost  as  soon 
as  you  receive  this.  The  bearer  will  tell  you 
what  has  happened  in  the  village — your  note 
throws  a  new  light  on  it  all.  I  only  remain  be- 
hind to  go  to  the  vicar  (who  is  also  the  magis- 
trate here),  and  declare  myself  your  husband. 
All  disguise  must  be  at  an  end  now.  My  place 
is  with  you  and  yours.  It  is  even  worse  than 
your  worst  fears.  Turlington  was  at  the  bottom 
of  the  attack  on  your  father.  Judge  if  you 
have  not  need  of  your  husband's  protection  after 
that!— L." 

Natalie  handed  the  letter  to  her  aunt,  and 
pointed  to  the  sentence  which  asserted  Turling- 
ton's guilty  knowledge  of  the  attempt  on  Sir 
Joseph's  life.  In  silent  horror  the  two  women 
looked  at  each  other,  recalling  what  had  hap- 
pened earlier  in  the  evening,  and  understanding 
it  now.     The  servant  roused  them  to  a  sense  of 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  487 

present  things,  by  entering  on  the  narrative  of 
his  discoveries  in  the  village. 

The  place  was  all  astir  when  he  reached  it. 
An  old  man — a  stranger  in  Baxdale — had  been 
found  lying  in  the  road,  close  to  the  church,  in  a 
fit;  and  the  person  who  had  discovered  him  had 
been  no  other  than  Launce  himself.  He  had, 
literally,  stumbled  over  the  bod}^  of  Thomas 
Wildfang  in  the  dark,  on  his  way  back  to  his 
lodgings  in  the  village. 

"The  gentleman  gave  the  alarm,  miss,"  said 
the  servant,  describing  the  event,  as  it  had  been 
related  to  him,  "and  the  man — a  huge,  big  old 
man — was  carried  to  the  inn.  The  landlord 
identified  him ;  he  had  taken  lodgings  at  the  inn 
that  day,  and  the  constable  found  valuable  prop- 
erty on  him — a  purse  of  money  and  a  gold  watch 
and  chain.  There  was  nothing  to  show  who  the 
money  and  the  watch  belonged  to.  It  was  only 
when  my  master  and  the  doctor  got  to  the  inn 
that  it  was  known  whom  he  had  robbed  and 
tried  to  murder.  All  he  let  out  in  his  wander- 
ings before  they  came  was  that  some  person  had 
set  him  on  to  do  it.  He  called  the  person  'Cap- 
tain,' and  sometimes  'Captain  Go  ward.'  It  was 
thought — if  you  could  trust  the  ravings  of  a 
madman — that  the  fit  took  him  while  he  was 
putting  his  hand  on  Sir  Joseph's  heart  to  feel  if 
it  had  stopped  beating.  A  sort  of  vision  (as  I  • 
understand  it)  must  have  overpowered  him  at 
the  moment.  They  tell  me  he  raved  about  the 
sea  bursting  into  the  church- yard,  and  a  drown- 
ing sailor  floating  by  on  a  hen-coop;    a  sailor 


488  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

who  dragged  him  down  to  hell  by  the  hair  of 
his  head,  and  such  like  horrible  nonsense,  miss. 
He  was  still  screeching,  at  the  worst  of  the  fit, 
when  my  master  and  the  doctor  came  into  the 
room.  At  sight  of  one  or  other  of  them — it  is 
thought  of  Mr,  Turlington,  seeing  that  he  came 
first — he  held  his  peace  on  a  sudden,  and  then 
fell  back  in  convulsions  in  the  arms  of  the  men 
who  were  holding  him.  The  doctor  gave  it  a 
learned  name,  signifying  drink-madness,  and 
said  the  case  was  hopeless.  However,  he  ordered 
the  room  to  be  cleared  of  the  crowd  to  see  what 
he  could  do.  My  master  was  reported  to  be  still 
with  the  doctor,  waiting  to  see  whether  the  man 
lived  or  died,  when  I  left  the  village,  miss,  with 
the  gentleman's  answer  to  your  note.  I  didn't 
dare  staj^  to  hear  how  it  ended,  for  fear  of  Mr. 
Turlington's  finding  me  out." 

Having  reached  the  end  of  his  narrative,  the 
man  looked  round  restlessly  toward  the  window. 
It  was  impossible  to  say  when  his  master  might 
not  return,  and  it  might  be  as  much  as  his  life 
was  worth  to  be  caught  in  the  house  after  he  had 
been  locked  out  of  it.  He  begged  permission  to 
open  the  window,  and  make  his  escape  back  to 
the  stables  while  there  was  still  time.  As  he 
unbarred  the  shutter  they  were  startled  by  a 
voice  hailing  them  from  below.  It  was  Launce's 
•voice  calling  to  Natalie.  The  servant  disap- 
peared, and  Natalie  was  in  Launce's  arms  be- 
fore she  could  breathe  again. 

For  one  delicious  moment  she  let  her  head  lie 
on  his  breast;  then  she  suddenly  pushed   him 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  489 

away  from  xier.  "Why  do  you  come  here?  He 
will  kill  you  if  he  finds  you  in  the  house.  Where 
is  he?" 

Launce  knew  even  less  of  Turlington's  move- 
ments than  the  servant.  "  Wherever  he  is,  thank 
God,  I  am  here  before  him!"  That  was  all  the 
answer  he  could  give. 

Natalie  and  her  aunt  heard  him  in  silent  dis- 
may. Sir  Joseph  woke,  and  recognized  Launce 
before  a  word  more  could  be  said.  "Ah,  my 
dear  boy!"  he  murmured,  faintly.  "It's  pleas- 
ant to  see  you  again.  How  do  you  come  here?" 
He  was  quite  satisfied  with  the  first  excuse  that 
suggested  itself.  "We'll  talk  about  it  to-mor- 
row," he  said,  and  composed  himself  to  rest 
again. 

Natalie  made  a  second  attempt  to  persuade 
Launce  to  leave  the  house. 

"We  don't  know  what  maj'"  have  happened," 
she  said.  "He  may  have  followed  you  on  your 
way  here.  He  may  have  purposely  let  you  enter 
his  house.   Leave  us  while  you  have  the  chance. " 

Miss  Lavinia  added  her  persuasions.  They 
were  useless.  Launce  quietly  closed  the  heavj'" 
window-shutters,  lined  with  iron,  and  put  up  the 
bar.     Natalie  wrung  her  hands  in  despair. 

"Have  you  been  to  the  magistrate?"  she 
asked.  "Tell  us,  at  least,  are  you  here  bj'"  his 
advice?     Is  he  coming  to  help  us?" 

Launce  hesitated.  If  he  had  told  the  truth, 
he  must  have  acknowledged  that  he  was  there 
in  direct  opposition  to  the  magistrate's  advice. 
He  answered  evasively,    "If  the  vicar  doesn't 


490  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

come,  the  doctor  will.  I  have  told  him  Sir  Jo- 
seph must  be  moved.  Cheer  up,  Natalie !  The 
doctor  will  be  here  as  soon  as  Turlington." 

As  the  name  passed  his  lips — without  a  sound 
outside  to  prepare  them  for  what  was  coming — 
the  voice  of  Turlington  himself  suddenly"  pene- . 
trated  into  the  room,  speaking  close  behind  the 
window,  on  the  outer  side. 

' '  You  have  broken  into  my  house  in  the  night, ' ' 
said  the  voice.  "And  you  don't  escape  this 
way." 

Miss  Lavinia  sank  on  her  knees.  Natalie  flew 
to  her  father.  His  eyes  were  wide  open  in  terror ; 
he  moaned,  feebly  recognizing  the  voice.  The 
next  sound  that  was  heard  was  the  sound  made 
by  the  removal  of  the  ladder  from  the  balcony. 
Turlington,  having  descended  by  it,  had  taken 
it  away.  Natalie  had  but  too  accuratelj'  guessed 
what  would  happen.  The  death  of  the  villain's 
accomplice  had  freed  him  from  all  apprehension 
in  that  quarter.  He  had  deliberately  dogged 
Launce's  steps,  and  had  deliberately  allowed  him 
to  put  himself  in  the  wrong  by  effecting  a  secret 
entrance  into  the  house. 

There  was  an  interval — a  horrible  interval— 
and  then  they  heard  the  front  door  opened.  With- 
out stopping  (judging  by  the  absence  of  sound) 
to  close  it  again,  Turlington  rapidly  ascended 
the  stairs  and  tried  the  locked  door. 

"Come  out,  and  give  yourself  up!"  he  called 
through  the  door.  "I  have  got  my  revolver 
with  me,  and  I  have  a  right  to  fire  on  a  man 
who  has   broken   into  my  house.     If  the  door 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  J 91 

isn't  opened  before  I  count  three,  your  blood 
be  on  your  own  head.     One!" 

Launce  was  armed  with  nothing  but  his  stick. 
He  advanced,  without  an  instant's  hesitation, 
to  give  himself  up.  Natalie  threw  her  arms 
round  him  and  clasped  him  fast  before  he  could 
reach  the  door. 

"Two!"  cried  the  voice  outside,  as  Launce 
struggled  to  force  her  from  him.  At  the  same 
moment  his  eye  turned  toward  the  bed.  It  was 
exactly  opposite  the  door — it  was  straight  in  the 
line  of  fire !  Sir  Joseph's  life  (as  Turlington  had 
deliberately  calculated)  was  actually  in  greater 
danger  than  Launce's  life.  He  tore  himself 
free,  rushed  to  the  bed,  and  took  the  old  man 
in  his  arms  to  lift  him  out, 

"Three!" 

The  crash  of  the  report  sounded.  The  bullet 
came  through  the  door,  grazed  Launce's  left 
arm,  and  buried  itself  in  the  pillow,  at  the 
very  place  on  which  Sir  Joseph's  head  had 
rested  the  moment  before.  Launce  had  saved 
his  father-in-law's  life.  Turlington  had  fired 
his  first  shot  for  the  money,  and  had  not  got 
it  yet. 

The}"  were  safe  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  en 
the  same  side,  as  the  door — Sir  Joseph,  helpless 
as  a  child,  in  Launce's  arms;  the  women  pale, 
but  admirably  calm.  They  were  safe  for  the 
moment,  when  the  second  bullet  (fired  at  an 
angle)  tore  its  way  through  the  wall  on  their 
right  hand. 

"I  hear  you,"  cried  the  voice  of  the  miscreant 


492  WORKS     OF     WILKIE    COLLINS. 

on  the  other  side  of  the  door.  "I'll  have  you  yet 
— through  the  wall. ' ' 

There  was  a  pause.  They  heard  his  haud 
sounding  the  wall,  to  find  out  where  there  was 
solid  wood  in  the  material  of  which  it  was  built, 
and  where  there  was  plaster  only.  At  that  dread- 
ful moment  Launce's  composure  never  left  him. 
He  laid  Sir  Joseph  softly  on  the  floor,  and  signed 
to  Natalie  and  her  aunt  to  lie  down  by  him  in 
silence.  Their  lives  depended  now  on  neither 
their  voices  nor  their  movements  telling  the  mur- 
derer where  to  fire.  He  chose  his  place.  The 
barrel  of  the  revolver  grated  as  he  laid  it  against 
the  wall.  He  touched  the  hair  trigger.  A  faint 
click  was  the  only  sound  that  followed.  The 
third  barrel  had  missed  fire. 

T\xej  heard  him  ask  himself,  with  an  oath, 
"What's  wrong  with  it  now?" 

There  was  a  pause  of  silence. 

Was  he  examining  the  weapon? 

Before  they  could  ask  themselves  the  question, 
the  report  of  the  exploding  charge  burst  on  their 
eare.  It  was  instantly  followed  by  a  heavj'^  fall. 
They  looked  at  the  opposite  wall  of  the  room.  No 
sign  of  a  bullet  there  or  anywhere. 

Launce  signed  to  them  not  to  move  yet.  They 
waited,  and  listened.  Nothing  sjtirred  on  the 
landing  outside. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  disturbance  of  the  si- 
lence in  the  lower  regions— a  clamor  of  many 
voices  at  the  open  house  door.  Had  the  firing 
of  the  revolver  been  heard  at  the  vicarage? 
Yes!     They  recognized  the  vicar's  voice  among 


MISS   OR   MRS.?  493 

the  others.  A  moment  more,  and  they  heard 
a  general  exclamation  of  horror  on  the  stairs. 
Launce  opened  the  door  of  the  room.  He  in- 
stantly closed  it  again  before  Na^talie  could  fol- 
low him. 

The  dead  body  of  Turlington  lay  on  the  land- 
ing outside.  The  charge  in  the  fourth  barrel  of 
the  revolver  had  exploded  while  he  was  looking 
at  it.  The  bullet  had  entered  his  mouth  and 
killed  him  on  the  spot. 


DOCUMENTARY    HINTS,    IN    CON- 
CLUSION. 


FIRST  HINT. 

{Derived  from  Lady  Winivood^s  Card-Back.) 
"Sir  Joseph  Graybrooke  and  Miss  Graybrooke 
request  the  honor  of  Lord  and  Lady  Winwood's 
company  to  dinner,  on  Wednesday,  February  10, 
at  half- past  seven  o'clock.  To  meet  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Launcelot  Linzie  on  their  return." 


SECOND   HINT. 

(Derived  from  a  recent  Money  Article  in  a 
morning  Newspaper.) 

"We  are  requested  to  give  the  fullest  contra- 
diction to  unfavorable  rumors  lately  in  circula- 


494  WORKS     OP    WILKIE     COLLINS. 

tion  respecting  the  firm  of  Pizzituti,  Turlington, 
and  Branca.  Some  temporary  derangement  in 
the  machinery  of  the  business  was  undoubtedly 
produced  in  consequence  of  the  sudden  death  of 
the  lamented  managing  partner,  Mr.  Turlington, 
by  the  accidental  discharge  of  a  revolver  which 
he  was  examining.  Whatever  temporary  ob- 
stacles may  have  existed  are  now  overcome. 
We  are  informed,  on  good  authority,  that  the 
well-known  house  of  Messrs.  Bulpit  Brothers 
has  an  interest  in  the  business,  and  will  carry 
it  on  until  further  notice." 


END  OF   "MISS  OR  MRS.?" 


THE  FROZEN  DEEP. 


FIBST  SCENE.— THE  BALL-ROOM. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  date  is  between  twenty  and  thirty  years 
ago.  The  place  is  an  English  sea-port.  The 
time  is  night.  And  the  business  of  the  moment 
is — dancing. 

The  Mayor  and  Corporation  of  the  town  are 
giving  a  grand  ball,  in  celebration  of  the  de- 
parture of  an  Arctic  expedition  from  their  port. 
The  ships  of  the  expedition  are  two  in  number 
— the  Wanderer  and  the  Sea-meiv.  They  are 
to  sail  (in  search  of  the  Northwest  Passage)  on 
the  next  day,  with  the  morning  tide. 

Honor  to  the  Mayor  and  Corporation !  It  is 
a  brilliant  ball.  The  band  is  complete.  The 
room  is  spacious.  The  large  conservatory  open- 
ing out  of  it  is  pleasantly  lighted  with  Chinese 
lanterns,  and  beautifully  decorated  with  shrubs 
and  flowers.  All  officers  of  the  army  and  navy 
who  are  present  wear  their  uniforms  in  honor  of 
the  occasion.     Among  the  ladies,  the  displaj^  of 

(495) 


496  WORKS    OF    WILKIE     COLLINS. 

dresses  (a  subject  which  the  men  don't  under- 
stand) is  bewildering— and  the  average  of  beauty 
(a  subject  wliich  the  men  do  understand)  is  the 
highest  average  attainable,  in  all  parts  of  the 
room. 

For  the  moment,  the  dance  which  is  in  progress 
is  a  quadrille.  General  admiration  selects  two  of 
the  ladies  who  are  dancing  as  its  favorite  objects. 
One  is  a  dark  beauty  in  the  prime  of  womanhood 
— the  wife  of  First  Lieutenant  Crayford,  of  the 
Wancle7'e7\  The  other  is  a  young  girl,  pale  and 
delicate;  dressed  simply  in  white-,  with  no  orna- 
ment on  her  head  but  her  own  lovely  brown  hair. 
This  is  Miss  Clara  Burnham — an  orphan.  She  is 
Mrs.  Crayford's  dearest  friend,  and  she  is  to  stay 
with  Mrs.  Craj^ford  during  the  lieutenant's  ab- 
sence in  the  Arctic  regions.  She  is  now  dancing, 
with  the  lieutenant  himself  for  partner,  and  with 
Mrs.  Crayford  and  Captain  Helding  (command- 
ing officer  of  the  Wanderer)  for  vis-a-vis — in 
plain  English,  for  opposite  couple. 

The  conversation  between  Captain  Helding 
and  Mrs.  Crayford,  in  one  of  the  inter vp.ls  of 
the  dance,  turns  on  Miss  Burnham.  The  cap- 
tain is  greatly  interested  in  Clara.  He  admires 
her  beauty;  but  he  thinks  her  manner — for  a 
young  girl — strangely  serious  and  subdued.  Is 
she  in  delicate  health? 

Mrs.  Crayford  shakes  her  head;  sighs  myste- 
riously ;  and  answers, 

"In  very  delicate  health.  Captain  Helding." 

"Consumptive?" 

"Not  in  the  least." 


THE   FROZEN    DEEP.  497 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  that.  She  is  a  charming 
creature,  Mrs.  Crayford.  Slie  interests  me  in- 
describably. If  I  was  only  twenty  years  younger 
—perhaps  (as  I  am  not  twenty  years  younger) 
I  had  better  not  finish  the  sentence?  Is  it  in- 
discreet, my  dear  lady,  to  inquire  what  is  the 
matter  with  her?" 

"It  might  be  indiscreet,  on  the  part  of  a 
stranger,"  said  Mrs.  Crayford.  "An  old  triend 
like  you  may  make  any  inquiries.  I  wish  I 
could  tell  you  what  is  the  matter  with  Clara. 
It  is  a  mystery  to  the  doctors  themselves.  Some 
of  the  mischief  is  due,  in  my  humble  opinion,  to 
the  manner  in  which  she  has  been  brought  up." 

"Ay!  ay!     A  bad  school,  I  suppose." 

"Very  bad,  Captain  Holding.  But  not  the 
sort  of  school  which  you  have  in  your  mind  at 
this  moment.  Clara's  early  years  were  spent  in 
a  lonely  old  house  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland. 
The  ignorant  people  about  her  were  the  people 
who  did  the  mischief  which  I  have  just  been 
speaking  of.  They  filled  her  mind  with  the  super- 
stitions which  are  still  respected  as  truths  in  the 
wild  North— especially  the  superstition  called  the 
Second  Sight." 

"God  bless  me!"  cried  the  captain,  "you  don't 
mean  to  say  she  believes  in  such  stuff  as  that? 
In  these  enlightened  times  too!" 

Mrs.  Crayford  looked  at  her  partner  with  a 
satirical  smile. 

"In  these  enlightened  times,  Captain  Helding, 
we  only  believe  in  dancing  tables,  and  in  mes- 
sages sent  from  the  other  world  by  spirits  who 


498  WORKS   OF    WILKIE    COI.LINS. 

can't  spell !  By  comparison  with  such  supersti- 
tions as  these,  even  the  Second  Sight  has  some- 
thing— in  the  shape  of  poetry — to  recommend  it, 
surely?  Estimate  for  yourself,"  she  continued 
seriously,  "the  effect  of  such  surroundings  as  I 
have  described  on  a  delicate,  sensitive  young 
creature — a  girl  with  a  naturally  imaginative 
temperament,  leading  a  lonely,  neglected  life.  Is 
it  so  very  surprising  that  she  should  catch  the 
infection  of  the  superstition  about  her?  And  is 
it  quite  incomprehensible  that  her  nervous  sys- 
tem should  suffer  accordingly,  at  a  very  critical 
period  of  her  life?" 

"Not  at  all,  Mrs  Crayford — not  at  all,  ma'am, 
as  you  put  it.  Still  it  is  a  little  startling,  to  a 
commonplace  man  like  me,  to  meet  a  young  lady 
at  a  ball  who  believes  in  the  Second  Sight.  Does 
she  really  profess  to  see  into  the  future?  Am  I 
to  understand  that  she  positively  falls  into  a 
trance,  and  sees  people  in  distant  countries,  and 
foretells  events  to  come?  That  is  the  Second 
Sight,  is  it  not?" 

"That  is  the  Second  Sight,  captain.  And  that 
is,  really  and  positively,  what  she  does." 

"The  young  lady  who  is  dancing  opposite  to 
us?" 

"The  young  lady  who  is  dancing  opposite  to 
us." 

The  captain  waited  a  little — letting  the  new 
flood  of  information  which  had  poured  in  on  him 
settle  itself  steadily  in  his  mind.  This  process 
accomplished,  the  Arctic  explorer  proceeded  res- 
olutely on  his  way  to  further  discoveries. 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  499 

''May  I  cisk,  ma'am,  if  you  have  ever  seen  her 
in  a  state  of  ti-ance  with  your  own  eyes?"  he 
inquired. 

"My  sister  and  I  both  saw  her  in  the  trance, 
little  more  than  a  month  since,"  Mrs.  Crayford 
replied.  "She  had  been  nervous  and  irritable 
all  the  morning ;  and  we  took  her  out  into  the 
garden  to  breathe  the  fresh  air.  Suddenly,  with- 
out any  reason  for  it,  the  color  left  her  face.  She 
stood  between  us,  insensible  to  touch,  insensible 
to  sound ;  motionless  as  stone,  and  cold  as  death 
in  a  moment.  The  first  change  we  noticed  came 
after  a  lapse  of  some  minutes.  Her  hands  began 
to  move  slowly,  as  if  she  was  groping  in  the 
dark.  Words  dropped  one  by  one  from  her  lips, 
in  a  lost,  vacant  tone,  as  if  she  was  talking  in 
her  sleep.  Whether  what  she  said  referred  to 
past  or  future  I  cannot  tell  you.  She  spoke  of 
persons  in  a  foreign  country — perfect  strangers 
to  my  sister  and  to  me.  After  a  little  interval, 
she  suddenly  became  silent.  A  momentary  color 
appeared  in  her  face,  and  left  it  again.  Her 
eyes  closed — her  feet  failed  her — and  she  sank 
insensible  into  our  arms." 

"Sank  insensible  into  your  arms,"  repeated 
the  captain,  absorbing  his  new  information. 
"Most  extraordinary!  And — in  this  state  of 
health — she  goes  out  to  parties,  and  dances. 
More  extraordinary  still!" 

"You  are  entirely  mistaken,"  said  Mrs.  Cray- 
ford.  "She  is  only  here  to-night  to  please  me; 
and  she  is  only  dancing  to  please  my  husband. 
As  a  rule,  she  shuns  all  society.     The  doctor  rec- 


500  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

ommends  change  and  amusement  for  her.  She 
won't  listen  to  him.  Except  on  rare  occasions 
like  this,  she  persists  in  remaining  at  home." 

Captain  He! ding  brightened  at  the  allusion  to 
the  doctor.  Something  practical  might  be  got 
out  of  the  doctor.  Scientific  man.  Sure  to  see 
this  very  obscure  subject  under  a  new  light. 
"How  does  it  strike  the  doctor  now?"  said  the 
captain.  "Viewed  simply  as  a  Case,  ma'am, 
how  does  it  strike  the  doctor?" 

"He  will  give  no  positive  opinion,"  Mrs. 
Crayford  answered.  "He  told  me  that  such 
cases  as  Clara's  were  by  no  means  unfamiliar  to 
medical  practice.  'We  know,'  he  told  me,  'that 
certain  disordered  conditions  of  the  brain  and 
the  nervous  system  produce  results  quite  as  ex- 
traordinary as  any  that  you  have  described — and 
there  our  knowledge  ends.  Neither  my  science 
nor  any  man's  science  can  clear  up  the  mystery  in 
this  case.  It  is  an  especially  difficult  case  to  deal 
with,  because  Miss  Burnham's  early  associations 
dispose  her  to  attach  a  superstitious  importance 
to  the  malady — the  hysterical  malady  as  some 
doctors  would  call  it — from  which  she  suffers,  I 
can  give  j^ou  instructions  for  preserving  her  gen- 
eral health ;  and  I  can  recommend  you  to  try 
some  change  in  her  life — provided  you  first  re- 
lieve her  mind  of  any  secret  anxieties  that  may 
possibly  be  preying  on  it.'  " 

The  captain  smiled  self-approvingly.  The 
doctor  had  justified  his  anticipations.  The 
doctor  had  suggested  a  practical  solution  of 
the  difficulty. 


THE   FROZEN    DEEP.  501 

"Ay!  ay!  At  last  we  have  hit  the  nail  on 
the  head!  Secret  anxieties.  Yes!  yes!  Plain 
enough  now.  A  disappointment  in  love — eh, 
Mrs.  Crayford?" 

"I  don't  know,  Captain  Holding;  I  am  quite 
in  the  dark.  Clara's  confidence  in  me — in  other 
matters  unbounded — is,  in  this  matter  of  her 
(supposed)  anxieties,  a  confidence  still  withheld. 
In  all  else  we  are  like  sisters.  I  sometimes  fear 
there  may  indeed  be  some  trouble  preying  secretly 
on  her  mind.  I  sometimes  feel  a  little  hurt  at 
her  incomprehensible  silence." 

Captain  Holding  was  ready  with  his  own 
practical  remedj'  for  this  difficulty. 

"Encouragement  is  all  she  wants,  ma'am. 
Take  my  word  for  it,  this  matter  rests  entirely 
with  you.  It's  all  in  a  nutshell.  Encourage 
her  to  confide  in  you— and  she  will  confide." 

"I  am  waiting  to  encourage  her,  captain,  un- 
til she  is  left  alone  with  me — after  you  have  all 
sailed  for  the  Arctic  seas.  In  the  meantime, 
will  you  consider  what  I  have  said  to  you  as 
intended  for  your  ear  only?  And  will  you  for- 
give me,  if  I  own  that  the  turn  the  subject  has 
taken  does  not  tempt  me  to  pursue  it  any 
further?" 

The  captain  took  the  hint.  He  instantly 
changed  the  subject;  choosing,  on  this  occasion, 
safe  professional  topics.  He  spoke  of  ships  that 
were  ordered  on  foreign  service;  and,  finding 
that  these  as  subjects  failed  to  interest  Mrs. 
Crayford,  he  spoke  next  of  ships  that  were 
ordered  home  again.     This  last  experiment  pro- 


502  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

duced  its  effect — an  effect  which  the  captain  had 
not  bargained  for. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  began,  "thatthe^^a/awfa 
is  expected  back  from  the  West  Coast  of  Africa 
every  day?  Have  you  any  acquaintances  among 
the  officers  of  that  ship?" 

As  it  so  happened,  he  put  those  questions  to 
Mrs.  Crayford  while  they  were  engaged  in  one 
of  the  figures  of  the  dance  which  brought  them 
within  hearing  of  the  opposite  couple.  At  the 
same  moment — to  the  astonishment  of  her  friends 
and  admirers — Miss  Clara  Burnham  threw  the 
quadrille  into  confusion  by  making  a  mistake ! 
Everybody  waited  to  see  her  set  the  mistake 
right.  She  made  no  attempt  to  set  it  right — 
she  turned  deadly  pale  and  caught  her  partner 
by  the  arm. 

"The  heat!",  she  said,  faintly.  "Take  me 
away — take  me  into  the  air!" 

Lieutenant  Crayford  instantly  led  her  out  of 
the  dance,  and  took  her  into  the  cool  and  empty 
conservatory,  at  the  end  of  the  room.  As  a 
matter  of  course,  Captain  Helding  and  Mrs. 
Craj^ford  left  the  quadrille  at  the  same  time. 
The  captain  saw  his  wa}^  to  a  joke. 

"Is  this  the  trance  coming  on?"  he  whispered. 
"If  it  is,  as  commander  of  the  Arctic  expedi- 
tion, I  have  a  particular  request  to  make.  Will 
the  Second  Sight  oblige  me  by  seeing  the  short- 
est way  to  the  Northwest  Passage,  before  we 
leave  England?" 

Mrs.  Crayford  declined  to  humor  the  joke. 
"If  you  will  excuse  my  leaving  yon,"  she  said 


THE    FROZKN    DEEP.  503 

quietly,  "I  will  try  and  find  out  what  is  the  mat- 
ter with  Miss  Burnham." 

At  the  entrance  to  the  conservatory,  Mrs. 
Crayford  encountered  her  husband.  The  lieu- 
tenant was  of  middle  age,  tall  and  comely.  A 
man  with  a  winning  simplicity  and  gentleness 
in  his  manner,  and  an  irresistible  kindness  in 
his  brave  blue  eyes.  In  one  word,  a  man  whom 
everybody  loved — including  his  wife. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  the  lieutenant. 
"The  heat  has  overcome  her — that's  all." 

Mrs,  Crayford  shook  her  head,  and  looked  at 
her  husband,  half  satirically,  half  fondly. 

"You  dear  old  innocent!"  she  exclaimed, 
"that  excuse  may  do  for  you.  For  my  part,  I 
don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  Go  and  get  another 
partner,  and  leave  Clara  to  me." 

She  entered  the  conservatory  and  seated  her- 
self by  Clara's  side. 


CHAPTER   II. 

"Now,  my  dear!"  Mrs.  Crayford  began, 
"what  does  this  mean?" 

"Nothing." 

"That  won't  do,  Clara.     Try  again." 

"The  heat  of  the  room—" 

"That  won't  do,  either.     Say  that  you  choose 

to  keep  your  own  secrets,  and  I  shall  understand 

what  you  mean." 

Clara's  sad,  clear  gray  eyes  looked  up  for  the 
Vol.  4  IT— 


504  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

first  time  in  Mrs.  Crayford's  face,  and  suddenly 
became  dimmed  with  tears. 

"  If  I  only  dared  tell  you !"  she  murmured.  ' '  I 
hold  so  to  your  good  opinion  of  me,  Lucy — and 
I  am  so  afraid  of  losing  it." 

Mrs.  Crayford's  manner  changed.  Her  eyes 
rested  gravely  and  anxiously  on  Clara's  face. 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  nothing  can 
shake  my  affection  for  you,"  she  said.  "Do 
justice,  my  child,  to  your  old  friend.  There  is 
nobody  here  to  listen  to  what  we  say.  Open 
your  heart,  Clara.  I  see  you  are  in  trouble,  and 
I  want  to  comfort  you. ' ' 

Clara  began  to  yield.  In  other  words,  she  be- 
gan to  make  conditions. 

"Will  you  promise  to  keep  what  I  tell  you  a 
secret  from  every  living  creature?"  she  began. 

Mrs.  Crayford  met  that  question,  by  putting  a 
question  on  her  side. 

"Does  'every  living  creature'  include  my  hus- 
band?" 

"Your  husband  more  than  anybody!  I  love 
him,  I  revere  him.  He  is  so  noble;  he  is  so 
good !  If  I  told  him  what  I  am  going  to  tell 
you,  he  would  despise  me.  Own  it  plainly,  Lucy, 
if  I  am  asking  too  much  in  asking  you  to  keep  a 
secret  from  your  husband." 

"Nonsense,  child!  When  you  are  married, 
you  will  know  that  the  easiest  of  all  secrets  to 
keep  is  a  secret  from  your  husband.  I  give  you 
my  promise.     Now  begin!" 

Clara  hesitated  painfully. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  begin!"  she  exclaimed. 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  505 

with  a  burst  of  despair.  "The  words  won't  come 
to  me." 

"Then  I  must  help  you.  Do  you  feel  ill  to- 
night? Do  you  feel  as  you  felt  that  day  when 
you  were  with  my  sister  and  me  in  the  gar- 
den?" 

"Oh  no." 

"You  are  not  ill,  you  are  not  reall}^  affected  by 
the  heat — and  yet  you  turn  as  pale  as  ashes,  and 
you  are  obliged  to  leave  the  quadrille !  There 
must  be  some  reason  for  this." 

"There  is  a  reason.     Captain  Helding — " 

"Captain  Helding!  What  in  the  name  of 
wonder  has  the  captain  to  do  with  it?" 

"He  told  you  something  about  the  Atalanta. 
He  said  the  Atalanta  was  expected  back  from 
Africa  inxmediately. " 

"Well,  and  what  of  that?  Is  there  anybody 
in  whom  you  are  interested  coming  home  in  the 
ship?" 

"Somebody  whom  I  am  afraid  of  is  coming 
home  in  the  ship. ' ' 

Mrs.  Crayf  ord's  magnificent  black  eyes  opened 
wide  in  amazement. 

"My  dear  Clara!  do  you  really  mean  what  you 
say?" 

"Wait  a  little,  Lucy,  and  you  shall  judge  for 
yourself.  We  must  go  back — if  I  am  to  make 
you  understand  me — to  the  year  before  we  knew 
each  other- — to  the  last  year  of  my  father's  life. 
Did  I  ever  tell  you  that  my  father  moved  south- 
ward, for  the  sake  of  his  health,  to  a  house  in 
Kent  that  was  lent  to  him  by  a  friend?" 


506  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"No,  my  dear;  I  don't  remember  ever  hearing 
of  the  house  in  Kent.     Tell  me  about  it." 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell,  except  this:  the  new 
house  was  near  a  fine  country-seat  standing  in 
its  own  park.  The  owner  of  the  place  was  a 
gentleman  named  Wardour.  He,  too,  was  one 
of  my  father's  Kentish  friends.  He  had  an 
only  son." 

She  paused,  and  played  nervously  with  her 
fan.  Mrs.  Crayford  looked  at  her  attentively. 
Clara's  eyes  remained  fixed  on  her  fan — Clara 
said  no  more.  "What  was  the  son's  name?" 
asked  Mrs.  Crayford,  quietly. 

"Richard." 

"Am  I  right,  Clara,  in  suspecting  that  Mr. 
Richard  Wardour  admired  you?" 

The  question  produced  its  intended  effect.  The 
question  helped  Clara  to  go  on. 

"I  hardly  knew  at  first,"  she  said,  "whether 
he  admired  me  or  not.  He  was  verj'-  strange  in 
his  ways — headstrong,  terribly  headstrong  and 
passionate;  but  generous  and  affectionate  in 
spite  of  his  faults  of  temper.  Can  you  under- 
stand such  a  character?" 

"Such  characters  exist  by  thousands.  I  have 
my  faults  of  temper.  I  begin  to  like  Richard 
already.     Goon." 

"The  days  went  bj",  Lucy,  and  the  weeks 
went  by.  We  were  thrown  very  much  together. 
I  began,  little  by  little,  to  have  some  suspicion  of 
the  truth." 

"And  Richard  helped  to  confirm  your  sus- 
picions, of  course?" 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP,  507 

"No.  He  was  not — unhappily  for  me^— he  was 
not  that  sort  of  man.  He  never  spoke  of  the 
feeling  with  which  he  regarded  me.  It  was  I 
who  saw  it.  I  couldn't  help  seeing  it.  I  did 
all  I  could  to  show  that  I  was  willing  to  be  a 
sister  to  him,  and  that  I  could  never  be  anything 
else.  He  did  not  understand  me,  or  he  would 
not,  I  can't  say  which." 

"  'Would  not,'  is  the  most  likely,  my  dear. 
Goon." 

"It  might  have  been  as  you  say.  There  was 
a  strange,  rough  bashfulness  about  him.  He 
confused  and  puzzled  me.  He  never  spoke  out. 
He  seemed  to  treat  me  as  if  our  future  lives  had 
been  provided  for  while  we  were  children.  What 
could  I  do,  Lucy?" 

"Do?  You  could  have  asked  your  father  to 
end  the  difficulty  for  you." 

"Impossible!  You  forget  what  I  have  just 
told  you.  My  father  was  suffering  at  that  time 
under  the  illness  which  afterward  caused  his 
death.     He  was  quite  unfit  to  interfere." 

"Was  there  no  one  else  who  could  help 
you?" 

"No  one." 

"No  lady  in  whom  you  could  confide?" 

"I  had  acquaintances  among  the  ladies  in  the 
neighborhood.     I  had  no  friends." 

"What  did  you  do,  then?" 

"Nothing.  I  hesitated;  I  put  off  coming  to 
an  explanation  with  him,  unfortunately,  until  it 
was  too  late. ' ' 

"What  do  you  mean  by  too  late?" 


508  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

' '  You  shall  hear.  I  ought  to  have  told  you 
that  Richard  Wardour  is  in  the  navy — " 

"Indeed!  I  am  more  interested  in  him  than 
ever.     Well?" 

"One  spring  day  Richard  came  to  our  house 
to  take  leave  of  us  before  he  joined  his  ship,  I 
thought  he  was  gone,  and  I  went  into  the  next 
room.  It  was  my  own  sitting-room,  and  it 
opened  on  to  the  garden." "Yes?" 

"Richard  must  have  been  watching  me.  He 
suddenly  appeared  in  the'  garden.  Without 
waiting  for  me  to  invite  him,  he  walked  into  the 
room.  I  was  a  little  startled  as  well  as  surprised, 
but  I  managed  to  hide  it.  I  said,  'What  is  it, 
Mr.  Wardour?'  He  stepped  close  up  tome;  he 
said,  in  his  quick,  rough  way:  'Clara!  I  am  go- 
ing to  the  African  coast.  If  I  live,  I  shall  come 
back  promoted ;  and  we  both  know  what  will 
happen  then.'  He  kissed  me.  I  was  half 
frightened,  half  angry.  Before  I  could  compose 
myself  to  say  a  word,  he  was  out  in  the  garden 
again — he  was  gone!  I  ought  to  have  spoken, 
I  know.  It  was  not  honorable,  not  kind  toward 
him.  You  can't  reproach  me  for  my  want  of 
courage  and  frankness  more  bitterly  than  I  re- 
proach myself!" 

"My  dear  child,  I  don't  reproach  you.  I  onlj^ 
think  you  might  have  written  to  him." 

"I  did  write." 

"Plainly?" 

"Yes.  I  told  him  in  so  many  words  that  he 
was  deceiving  himself,  and  that  I  could  never 
marry  him." 


THE   FROZEN    DEEP.  509 

"Plain  enough,  in  all  conscience!  Having 
said  that,  surely  you  are  not  to  blame.  "What 
are  you  fretting  about  now?" 

"Suppose  my  letter  has  never  reached  him?" 

"Why  should  you  suppose  anything  of  the 
sort?" 

"What  I  wrote  required  an  answer,  Lucy — 
asked  for  an  answer.  The  answer  has  never 
come.  What  is  the  plain  conclusion?  My  letter 
has  never  reached  him.  And  the  Atalanta  is 
expected  back !  Richard  Wardour  is  returning 
to  England — Richard  Wardour  will  claim  me 
as  his  wife!  You  wondered  just  now  if  I 
real!}"  meant  what  I  said.  Do  you  doubt  it 
still?" 

Mrs.  Crayford  leaned  back  absently  in  her 
chair.  For  the  first  time  since  the  conversation 
had  begun,  she  let  a  question  pass  without  mak- 
ing a  reply.  The  truth  is,  Mrs.  Crayford  was 
thinking. 

She  saw  Clara's  position  plainly;  she  under- 
stood the  disturbing  effect  of  it  on  the  mind  of 
a  young  girl.  Still,  making  all  allowances,  she 
felt  quite  at  a  loss,  so  far,  to  account  for  Clara's 
excessive  agitation.  Her  quick  observing  fac- 
ulty had  just  detected  that  Clara's  face  showed 
no  signs  of  relief,  now  that  she  had  unburdened 
herself  of  her  secret.  There  was  something 
clearly  under  the  surface  here — something  of 
importance  that  still  remained  to  be  discovered. 
A  shrewd  doubt  crossed  Mrs.  Crayford's  mind, 
and  inspired  the  next  words  which  she  addressed 
to  her  young  friend. 


510  WORKS    OF    WILKIE     COLLINS. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  abruptly,  "have  you  told 
me  air?" 

Clara  started  as  if  the  question  terrified  her. 
Feeling  sure  that  she  now  had  the  clew  in  her 
hand,  Mrs.  Crayford  deliberately  repeated  her 
question,  in  another  form  of  words.  Instead  of 
answering,  Clara  suddenly  looked  up.  At  the 
same  moment  a  faint  flush  of  color  appeared  in 
her  face  for  the  first  time. 

Looking  up  instinctively  on  her  side,  Mrs. 
Crayford  became  aware  of  the  presence,  in  the 
conservatory,  of  a  young  gentleman  who  was 
claiming  Clara  as  his  partner  in  the  coming 
waltz.  Mrs.  Crayford  fell  into  thinking  once 
more.  Had  this  young  gentleman  (she  asked 
herself)  anything  to  do  with  the  untold  end  of 
the  story?  Was  this  the  true  secret  of  Clara 
Burnham's  terror  at  the  impending  return  of 
Richard  "Wardour?  Mrs.  Crayford  decided  on 
putting  her  doubts  to  the  test. 

"A  friend  of  yours,  my  dear?"  she  asked,  inno- 
cently. ' '  Suppose  you  introduce  us  to  each  other. ' ' 

Clara  confusedly  introduced  the  young  gentle- 
man. 

"Mr.  Francis  Aldersley,  Lucy.  Mr.  Alders- 
ley  belongs  to  the  Arctic  expedition." 

"Attached  to  the  expedition?"  Mrs.  Craj^ford 
repeated.  "I  am  attached  to  the  expedition  too 
— in  my  way.  I  had  better  introduce  mj^-self, 
Mr.  Aldersley,  as  Clara  seems  to  have  forgotten 
to  do  it  for  me.  I  am  Mrs.  Crayford.  My  hus- 
band is  Lieutenant  Crayford,  of  the  Wanderer. 
Do  you  belong  to  that  ship?" 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  511 

"I  have  not  the  honor,  Mrs.  Crayford.     I  be- 
long to  the  Sea-mew.''^ 

Mrs.  Crayford's  superb  eyes  looked  shrewdly 
backward  and  forward  between  Clara  and  Fran- 
cis Aldersley,  and  saw  the  untold  sequel  to 
Clara's  story.  The  young  officer  was  a  bright, 
handsome,  gentleman-like  lad.  Just  the  person 
to  seriously  complicate  the  difficulty  with  Rich- 
ard Wardour!  There  was  no  time  for  making 
any  further  inquiries.  The  band  had  begun  the 
prelude  to  the  waltz,  and  Francis  Aldersley 
was  waiting  for  his  partner.  With  a  word 
of  apology  to  the  young  man,  Mrs.  Crayford 
drew  Clara  aside  for  a  moment,  and  spoke  to 
her  in  a  whisper. 

"One  word,  my  dear,  before  you  return  to 
the  ball-room.  It  may  sound  conceited,  after 
the  little  you  have  told  me;  but  I  think  I  un- 
derstand your  position  now^  better  than  you 
do  yourself.  Do  you  want  to  hear  my  opin- 
ion?" 

"I  am  longing  to  hear  it,  Lucy !  I  want  your 
opinion;  I  want  your  advice." 

"You  shall  have  both  in  the  plainest  and 
fewest  words.  First,  my  opinion:  You  have 
no  choice  but  to  come  to  an  explanation  with 
Mr.  Wardour  as  soon  as  he  returns.  Second, 
my  advice :  If  you  wish  to  make  the  explana- 
tion easy  to  both  sides,  take  care  that  you  make 
it  in  the  character  of  a  free  woman." 

She  laid  a  strong  emphasis  on  the  last  three 
words,  and  looked  pointedly  at  Francis  Aiders- 
ley  as  she  pronounced  them.     "I   won't   keep 


51?  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

you  from  your  partner  any  longer,  Clara,"  she 
resumed,  and  led  the  way  back  to  the  ball-room. 


CHAPTER    HI. 

9 

The  burden  on  Clara's  mind  weighs  on  it 
more  heavily  than  ever,  after  what  Mrs.  Cray- 
ford  has  said  to  her.  She  is  too  unhappy  to  feel 
the  inspiriting  influence  of  the  dance.  After  a 
turn  round  the  room,  she  complains  of  fatigue. 
Mr.  Francis  Aldersley  looks  at  the  conservatory 
(still  as  invitingly  cool  and  empty  as  ever); 
leads  her  back  to  it ;  and  places  her  on  a  seat 
among  the  shrubs.  She  tries— very  feebly — to 
dismiss  him. 

"Don't  let  me  keep  you  from  dancing,  Mr, 
Aldersley. ' ' 

He  seats  himself  by  her  side,  and  feasts  his 
eyes  on  the  lovely  downcast  face  that  dares  not 
turn  toward  him.     He  whispers  to  her : 

"Call  me  Frank." 

She  longs  to  call  him  Frank — she  loves  him 
with  all  her  heart.  But  Mrs.  Crayford's  warn- 
ing words  are  still  in  her  mind.  She  never  opens 
her  lips.  Her  lover  moves  a  little  closer,  and 
asks  another  favor.  Men  are  all  alike  on  these 
occasions.  Silence  invariably  encourages  them 
to  try  again. 

"Clara!  have  you  forgotten  what  I  said  at 
the  concert  yesterday?     May  I  say  it  again?" 

"No!" 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  513 

"We  sail  to-morrow  for  the  Arctic  seas.  I 
may  not  return  for  years.  Don't  send  me  away 
without  hope!  Think  of  the  long,  lonely  time 
in  the  dark  North !  Make  it  a  happy  time  for 
we." 

Though  he  speaks  with  the  fervor  of  a  man, 
he  is  little  more  than  a  lad :  he  is  only  twenty 
years  old,  and  he  is  going  to  risk  his  young  life 
on  the  frozen  deep!  Clara  pities  him  as  she 
never  pitied  any  human  creature  before.  He 
gently  takes  her  hand.     She  tries  to  release  it. 

' '  What !  not  even  that  little  favor  on  the  last 
night?" 

Her  faithful  heart  takes  his  part,  in  spite  of 
her.  Her  hand  remains  in  his,  and  feels  its  soft 
persuasive  pressure.  She  is  a  lost  woman.  It 
is  onlj^  a  question  of  time  now ! 

"Clara!  do  you  love  me?" 

There  is  a  pause.  She  shrinks  from  looking 
at  him — she  trembles  with  strange  contradic- 
tory sensations  of  pleasure  and  pain.  His  arm 
steals  round  her;  he  repeats  his  question  in  a 
whisper;  his  lips  almost  touch  her  little  rosy 
ear  as  he  says  it  again : 

"Do  you  love  me?" 

She  closes  her  eyes  faintly — she  hears  nothing 
but  those  words — feels  nothing  but  his  arm  round 
her — forgets  Mrs.  Crayford's  warning — forgets 
Richard  Wardour  himself — turns  suddenly,  with 
a  loving  woman's  desperate  disregard  of  every- 
thing but  her  love  —  nestles  her  head  on  his 
bosom,  and  answers  him  in  that  way,  at  last! 

He  lifts  the   beautiful   drooping  head — their 


514  WORKS     OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

lips  meet  in  their  first  kiss — they  are  both  in 
heaven:  it  is  Clara  who  brings  them  back  to 
earth  again  with  a  start — it  is  Clara  who  says, 
"Oh!  what  have  I  done?" — as  usual,  when  it 
is  too  late. 

Frank  answers  the  question. 

"You  have  made  me  happy,  my  angel.  Now, 
when  I  come  back,  I  come  back  to  make  you  my 
wife." 

She  shudders.  She  remembers  Richard  War- 
dour  again  at  those  words. 

"Mind!"  she  says,  "nobody  is  to  know  we 
are  engaged  till  I  permit  you  to  mention  it. 
Remember  that!" 

He  promises  to  remember  it.  His  arm  tries 
to  wind  round  her  once  more.  No !  She  is  mis- 
tress of  herself;  she  can  positively  dismiss  him 
now — after  she  has  let  him  kiss  her ! 

"Go!"  she  says.  "I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Cray- 
ford.  Find  her!  Say  I  am  here,  waiting  to 
speak  to  her.    Go  at  once,  Frank — for  my  sake !" 

There  is  no  alternative  but  to  obey  her.  His 
eyes  drink  a  last  draught  of  her  beauty.  He 
hurries  away  on  his  errand — the  happiest  man 
in  the  room.  Five  minutes  since  she  was  only 
his  partner  in  the  dance.  He  has  spoken — and 
she  has  pledged  herself  to  be  his  partner  for  life ! 


THK    FROZEN   DEEP.  515 


CHAPTER   IV. 

It  was  not  easy  to  find  Mrs.  Crayford  in  the 
crowd.  Searching  here,  and  searching  there, 
Frank  became  conscious  of  a  stranger,  who  ap- 
peared to  be  looking  for  somebody,  on  his  side. 
He  was  a  dark,  heavy-browed,  strongly-built 
man,  dressed  in  a  shabby  old  naval  officer's  uni- 
form. .  His  manner — strikingly  resolute  and  self- 
contained — was  unmistakably  the  manner  of  a 
gentleman.  He  wound  his  way  slowly  through 
the  crowd ;  stopping  to  look  at  every  lady  whom 
he  passed,  and  then  looking  away  again  with  a 
frown.  Little  by  little  he  approached  the  con- 
servatory— entered  it,  after  a  moment's  reflec- 
tion— detected  the  glimmer  of  a  white  dress  in 
the  distance,  through  the  shrubs  and  flowers — 
advanced  to  get  a  nearer  view  of  the  lady — and 
burst  into  Clara's  presence  with  a  cry  of  delight. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet.  She  stood  before  him 
speechless,  motionless,  struck  to  stone.  All  her 
life  was  in  her  eyes — the  eyes  which  told  her  she 
was  looking  at  Richard  Wardour. 

He  was  the  first  to  speak. 

*'I  am  sorry  I  startled  you,  mj^  darling.  I 
forgot  everything  but  the  happiness  of  seeing 
you  again.  We  only  reached  our  moorings  two 
hours  since.  I  was  some  time  inquiring  after 
you,  and  some  time  getting  my  ticket  when  they 
told  me  you  were  at  the  ball.  Wish  me  joy, 
Clara !  I  am  promoted.  I  have  come  back  to 
make  you  my  wife." 


516  WORKS    OF    WILKIE   COLLINS. 

A  momentary  change  passed  over  the  blank 
terror  of  her  face.  Her  color  rose  faintly,  her 
lips  moved.    She  abruptly  put  a  question  to  him. 

"Did  you  get  my  letter?" 

He  started.  "A  letter  from  you?  I  never 
received  it." 

The  momentary  animation  died  out  of  her  face 
again.  She  drew  back  from  him  and  dropped 
into  a  chair.  He  advanced  toward  her,  aston- 
ished and  alarmed.  She  shrank  in  the  chair — 
shrank,  as  if  she  was  frightened  of  him. 

"Clara,  you  have  not  even  shaken  hands  with 
me!     What  does  it  mean?" 

He  paused;  waiting  and  watching  her.  She 
made  no  reply.  A  flash  of  the  quick  temper  in 
him  leaped  up  in  his  eyes.  He  repeated  his  last 
words  in  louder  and  sterner  tones : 

"What  does  it  mean?" 

She  replied  this  time.  His  tone  had  hurt  her 
— his  tone  had  roused  her  sinking  courage. 

"It  means,  Mr.  Wardour,  that  you  have  been 
mistaken  from  the  first. ' ' 

"How  have  I  been  mistaken?" 

"You  have  been  under  a  wrong  impression, 
and  you  have  given  me  no  opportunity  of  set- 
ting you  right." 

"In  what  way  have  I  been  wrong?" 

"You  have  been  too  hasty  and  too  confident 
about  yourself  and  about  me.  You  have  entirely 
misunderstood  me.  I  am  grieved  to  distress  you, 
but  for  your  sake  I  must  speak  plainly.  I  am 
your  friend  always,  Mr.  Wardour.  I  can  never 
be  your  wife." 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP,  517 

He  mechanically  repeated  the  last  words.  He 
seemed  to  doubt  whether  he  had  heard  her  aright. 

"You  can  never  be  my  wife?" 

"Never!" 

"Why?" 

There  was  no  answer.  She  was  incapable  of 
telling  him  a  falsehood.  She  was  ashamed  to 
tell  him  the  truth. 

He  stooped  over  her,  and  suddenly  possessed 
himself  of  her  hand.  Holding  her  hand  firmly, 
he  stooped  a  little  lower;  searching  for  the  signs 
which  might  answer  him  in  her  face.  His  own 
face  darkened  slowly  while  he  looked.  He  was 
beginning  to  suspect  her ;  and  he  acknowledged 
it  in  his  next  words. 

"Something  has  changed  you  toward  me, 
Clara,  Somebody  has  influenced  you  against 
me.  Is  it — you  force  me  to  ask  the  question — is 
it  some  other  man?" 

"You  have  no  right  to  ask  me  that," 

He  went  on  without  noticing  what  she  had 
said  to  him, 

"Has  that  other  man  come  between  you  and 
me?  I  speak  plainly  on  my  side.  Speak  plainly 
on  yours, ' ' 

"I  have  spoken.  I  have  nothing  more  to  say." 

There  was  a  pause.  She  saw  the  warning 
light  which  told  of  the  fire  within  him,  growing 
brighter  and  brighter  in  his  eyes.  She  felt  his 
grasp  strengthening  on  her  hand.  He  appealed 
to  her  for  the  last  time. 

"Reflect,"  he  said,  "reflect  before  it  is  too 
late.     Your  silence  will  not  serve  you.     If  you 


518  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS:   • 

persist  in  not  answering  me,  I  shall  take  your 
silence  as  a  confession.     Do  you  hear  me?" 

"I  hear  you." 

"Clara  Burnham!  I  am  not  to  be  trifled  with. 
Clara  Burnham!  I  insist  on  the  truth.  Are 
you  false  to  me?" 

She  resented  that  searching  question  with  a 
woman's  keen  sense  of  the  insult  that  is  implied 
in  doubting  her  to  her  face. 

"Mr.  Wardour!  you  forget  yourself  when  you 
call  me  to  account  in  that  way.  I  never  en- 
couraged you.  I  never  gave  you  promise  or 
pledge — " 

He  passionately  interrupted  her  before  she 
could  say  more. 

"You  have  engaged  yourself  in  my  absence. 
Your  words  own  it ;  your  looks  own  it !  You 
have  engaged  yourself  to  another  man!" 

"If  I  have  engaged  myself,  what  right  have 
you  to  complain  of  it?"  she  answered  firmly. 
"  What  right  ha ve  you  to  control  my  actions — ?" 

The  next  words  died  away  on  her  lips.  He 
suddenly  dropped  her  hand.  A  naarked  change 
appeared  in  the  expression  of  his  eyes — a  change 
which  told  her  of  the  terrible  passions  that  she 
had  let  loose  in  him.  She  read,  dimly  read,  some- 
thing in  his  face  which  made  her  tremble — not 
for  herself,  but  for  Frank. 

Little  by  little  the  dark  color  faded  out  of  his 
face.  His  deep  voice  dropped  suddenly  to  a  low 
and  quiet  tone  as  he  spoke  the  parting  words. 

"Say  no  more,  Miss  Burnham — you  have  said 
enough.     I  am  answered;  I  am  dismissed."   He 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP,  519 

paused,  and,  stepping  close  up  to  her,  laid  his 
hand  on  her  arm. 

"The  time  may  come,"  he  said,  "when  I  shall 
forgive  you.  But  the  man  who  has  robbed  me 
of  you  shall  rue  the  day  when  you  and  he  first 
met." 

He  turned  and  left  her. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Mrs.  Crayford,  entering 
the  conservatory,  was  met  by  one  of  the  attend- 
ants at  the  ball.  The  man  stopped  as  if  he 
wished  to  speak  to  her. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am.  Do  you  happen 
to  have  a  smelling-bottle  about  you?  There  is  a 
young  lady  in  the  conservatory  who  is  taken 
faint." 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  morning  of  the  next  day — the  morning 
on  which  the  ships  were  to  sail — came  bright 
and  breezy.  Mrs.  Crayford,  having  arranged  to 
follow  her  husband  to  the  water-side,  and  see 
the  last  of  him  before  he  embarked,  entered 
Clara's  room  on  her  way  out  of  the  house,  anx- 
ious to  hear  how  her  young  friend  passed  the 
night".  To  her  astonishment  she  found  Clara  had 
risen,  and  was  dressed,  like  herself,  to  go  out. 

"What  does  this  mean,  my  dear?  After  what 
you  suffered  last  night — after  the  shock  of  seeing 


520  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

that  man — why  don't  you  take  my  advice  and 
rest  in  your  bed?" 

"I  can't  rest.  I  have  not  slept  all  night.  Have 
you  been  out  yet?" 

'*No." 

■ '  Have  you  seen  or  heard  anything  of  Richard 
Wardour?" 

"What  an  extraordinary  question!" 

"Answer  my  question !  Don't  trifle  with  me!" 

"Compose  yourself,  Clara.  I  have  neither 
seen  nor  heard  anything  of  Richard  A\^ardour. 
Take  my  word  for  it,  he  is  far  enough  away  by 
this  time." 

"No!  He  is  here!  He  is  near  us!  All  night 
long  the  presentiment  has  pursued  me — Frank 
and  Richard  "Wardour  will  meet." 

"My  dear  child!  what  are  you  thinking  of? 
They  are  total  strangers  to  each  other. ' ' 

"Something  will  happen  to  bring  them  to- 
gether. I  feel  it!  I  kuow  it!  They  will  meet 
— there  will  be  a  mortal  quarrel  between  them 
— and  I  shall  be  to  blame.  Oh,  Lucy!  why 
didn't  I  take  your  advice?  Why  was  I  mad 
enough  to  let  Frank  know  that  I  loved  him? 
Are  you  going  to  the  landing-stage?  I  am  all 
ready — I  must  go  with  you." 

"You  must  not  think  of  it,  Clara.  There  will 
be  crowding  and  confusion  at  the  water-side. 
You  are  not  strong  enough  to  bear  it.  "Wait — 
I  won't  be  long  away — wait  till  I  come  back. ' ' 

"I  must  and  will  go  with  you!  Crowd?  He 
will  be  among  the  crowd !  Confusion?  In  that 
confusion  he  will  find  his  way  to  Frank!     Don't 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  521 

ask  me  to  wait.  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  wait.  I 
shall  not  know  a  moment's  ease  until  I  have  seen 
Frank,  with  my  own  eyes,  safe  in  the  boat  which 
takes  him  to  his  ship !  You  have  got  your  bon- 
net on;  what  are  we  stopping  here  for?  Come! 
or  I  shall  go  without  you.  Look  at  the  clock ; 
we  have  not  a  moment  to  lose!" 

It  was  useless  to  contend  with  her.  Mrs. 
Crayford  yielded.  The  two  women  left  the 
house  together. 

The  landing-stage,  as  Mrs,  Crayford  had  pre- 
dicted, was  thronged  with  spectators.  Not  only 
the  relatives  and  friends  of  the  Arctic  voyagers, 
but  strangers  as  well,  had  assembled  in  large 
numbers  to  see  the  ships  sail.  Clara's  eyes 
wandered  affrightedly  hither  and  thither  among 
the  strange  faces  in  the  crowd ;  searching  for  the 
one  face  that  she  dreaded  to  see,  and  not  finding 
it.  So  completely  were  her  nerves  unstrung, 
that  she  started  with  a  cry  of  alarm  on  suddenly 
hearing  Frank's  voice  behind  her. 

"The  Sea-mew'' s  boats  are  waiting,"  he  said. 
"I  must  go,  darling.  How  pale  you  are  looking, 
Clara!     Are  you  ill?" 

She  never  answered.  She  questioned  him  with 
wild  eyes  and  trembling  lips. 

"Has  anything  happened  to  you,  Frank?  any- 
thing out  of  the  common?"  - 

Frank  laughed  at  the  strange  question. 

"Anything  out  of  the  common?"  he  repeated. 
"Nothing  that  I  know  of,  except  sailing  for  the 
Arctic  seas.  That's  out  of  the  common,  I  sup- 
pose— isn't  it?" 


532  WORKS    OF   WILKIE   COLLINS. 

"Has  anybody  spoken  to  you  since  last  night? 
Has  any  stranger  followed  you  in  the  street?" 

Frank  turned  in  blank  amazement  to  Mrs. 
Cray  ford. 

"What  on  earth  does  she  mean?" 

Mrs.  Crayford's  lively  invention  supplied  her 
with  an  answer  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 

"Do  you  believe  in  dreams,  Frank?  Of  course 
5^ou  don't !  Clara  has  been  dreaming  about  you ; 
and  Clara  is  foolish  enough  to  believe  in  dreams. 
That's  all — it's  not  worth  talking  about.  Hark ! 
they  are  calling  you.  Say  good-by,  or  you  will 
be  too  late  for  the  boat." 

Frank  took  Clara's  hand.  Long  afterward — 
in  the  dark  Arctic  days,  in  the  dreary  Arctic 
nights  —  he  remembered  how  coldly  and  how 
passively  that  hand  lay  in  his. 

"Courage,  Clara!"  he  said,  gayly.  "A  sail- 
or's sweetheart  must  accustom  herself  to  part- 
ings. The  time  will  soon  pass.  Good-by,  my 
darling!     Good-by,  my  wife!" 

He  kissed  the  cold  hand ;  he  looked  his  last — 
for  many  a  long  year,  perhaps ! — at  the  pale  and 
beautiful  face.  ' '  How  she  loves  me !"  he  thought. 
"How  the  parting  distresses  her!"  He  still  held 
her  hand;  he  would  have  lingered  longer,,  if 
Mrs.  Crayford  had  not  wisely  waived  all  cere- 
mony and  pushed  him  away. 

The  two  ladies  followed  him  at  a  safe  distance 
through  the  crowd,  and  saw  him  step  into  the 
boat.  The  oars  struck  the  water ;  Frank  waved 
his  cap  to  Clara.  In  a  moment  more  a  vessel 
at  anchor  hid  the  boat  from  view.     They  had 


THK    FROZEN    DEEP.  523 

seen  the  last  of  him  on  his  way  to  the  Frozen 
Deep! 

"No  Richard  Wardoiir  in  the  boat,"  said  Mrs. 
Crayford.  "No  Richard  Wardour  on  the  shore. 
Let  this  be  a  lesson  to  you,  my  dear.  Never 
be  foolish  enough  to  believe  in  presentiments 
again." 

Clara's  eyes  still  wandered  suspiciously  to  and 
fro  among  the  crowd. 

"Are  you  not  satisfied  yet?"  asked  Mrs.  Cray- 
ford. 

"No,"   Clara  answered,   "I  am  not  satisfied 

yet." 

"What!  still  looking  for  him?  This  is  really 
too  absurd.  Here  is  my  husband  coming.  I 
shall  tell  him  to  call  a  cab,  and  send  you  home. ' ' 

Clara  drew  back  a  few  steps. 

"I  won't  be  in  the  way,  Lucy,  while  you  are 
taking  leave  of  your  good  husband,"  she  said. 
"I  will  wait  here." 

"Wait  here!     What  for?" 

"For  something  which  I  may  yet  see;  or  for 
something  which  T  -nay  still  hear." 

"Richard  Wardour?" 

"Richard  Wardour." 

Mrs.  Crayford  turned  to  her  husband  without 
another  word.  Clara's  infatuation  was  beyond 
the  reach  of  remonstrance. 

The  boats  of  the  Wanderer  took  the  place  at 
the  landing-stage  vacated  by  the  boats  of  the 
Sea-mew.  A  burst  of  cheering  among  the  outer 
ranks  of  the  crowd  announced  the  arrival  of  the 
commander  of  the  expedition  on  the  scene.    Cap- 


524  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

tain  Helding  appeared,  looking  right  and  left 
for  his  first  lieutenant.  Finding  Crayford  with 
his  wife,  the  captain  made  his  apologies  for  in- 
terfering, with  his  best  grace. 

"Give  him  up  to  his  professional  duties  for 
one  minute,  Mrs.  Crayford,  and  you  shall  have 
him  back  again  for  half  an  hour.  The  Arctic 
expedition  is  to  blame,  my  dear  lady — not  the 
captain — for  parting  man  and  wife.  In  Cray- 
ford's  place,  I  should  have  left  it  to  the  bach- 
elors to  find  the  Northwest  Passage,  and  have 
stopped  at  home  with  you!" 

Excusing  himself  in  those  bluntly  compliment- 
ary terms,  Captain  Helding  drew  the  lieutenant 
aside  a  few  steps,  accidentally  taking  a  direction 
that  led  the  two  officers  close  to  the  place  at 
which  Clara  was  standing.  Both  the  captain 
and  the  lieutenant  were  too  completely  absorbed 
in  their  professional  business  to  notice  her. 
Neither  the  one  nor  the  other  had  the  faintest 
suspicion  that  she  could  and  did  hear  every  word 
of  the  talk  that  passed  between  them. 

"You  received  my  note  .'Ms  morning?"  the 
captain  began. 

"Certainly,  Captain  Helding,  or  I  should  have 
been  on  board  the  ship  before  this. ' ' 

"I  am  going  on  board  myself  at  once,"  the 
captain  proceeded,  "but  I  must  ask  you  to  keep 
your  boat  waiting  for  half  an  hour  more.  You 
will  be  all  the  longer  with  your  wife,  you  know. 
I  thought  of  that,  Crayford." 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you.  Captain  Helding. 
I  suppose  there  is  some  other  reason  for  inverting 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  525 

the  customary  order  of  things,  and  keeping  th^ 
lieutenant  on  shore  after  the  captain  is  on 
board?" 

"Quite  true!  there ?'s  another  reason.  I  want 
you  to  wait  for  a  volunteer  who  has  just  joined 
us." 

"A  volunteer!" 

"Yes.  He  has  his  outfit  to  get  in  a  hurry, 
and  he  may  be  half  an  hour  late. ' ' 

"It's  rather  a  sudden  appointment,  isn't 
it?" 

"No  doubt.     Very  sudden." 

"And — pardon  me — it's  rather  a  long  time  (as 
we  are  situated)  to  keep  the  ships  waiting  for 
one  man?" 

"Quite  true,  again.  But  a  man  who  is  worth 
having  is  worth  waiting  for.  This  man  is  worth 
having;  this  man  is  worth  his  weight  in  gold  to 
such  an  expedition  as  ours.  Seasoned  to  all 
climates  and  all  fatigues — a  strong  fellow,  a 
brave  fellow,  a  clever  fellow — in  short,  an  excel- 
lent officer.  I  know  him  well,  or  I  should  never 
have  taken  him.  The  country  gets  plenty  of 
work  out  of  my  new  volunteer,  Cray  ford.  He 
only  returned  yesterday  from  foreign  service." 

"He  only  returned  yesterday  from  foreign 
service !  And  he  volunteers  this  morning  to  join 
the  Arctic  expedition?     You  astonish  me." 

"I  dare  say  I  do!  You  can't  be  more  aston- 
ished than  I  was,  when  he  presented  himself  at 
my  hotel  and  told  me  what  he  wanted.  'Why, 
my  good  fellow,  you  have  just  got  home,'  I  said. 
'Are  you  weary  of  your  freedom,  after  only  a 


536  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

few  hours'  experience  of  it?'  His  answer  rather 
startled  me.  He  said,  'I  am  weary  of  my  life, 
sir.  I  have  come  home  and  found  a  trouble  to 
welcome  me,  which  goes  near  to  break  my  heart. 
If  I  don't  take  refuge  in  absence  and  hard  work, 
I  am  a  lost  man.  Will  you  give  me  a  refuge?' 
That's  what  he  said,  Crayford,  word  for  word." 

"Did  you  ask  him  to  explain  himself  fur- 
ther?" 

"Not  I!  I  knew  his  value,  and  I  took  the 
poor  devil  on  the  spot,  without  pestering  him 
with  any  more  questions.  No  need  to  ask  him 
to  explain  himself.  The  facts  speak  for  them- 
selves in  these  cases.  The  old  story,  my  good 
friend !  There's  a  woman  at  the  bottom  of  it, 
of  course. ' ' 

Mrs.  Crayford,  waiting  for  the  return  of  her 
husband  as  patiently  as  she  could,  was  startled 
by  feeling  a  hand  suddenly  laid  on  her  shoulder. 
She  looked  round,  and  confronted  Clara.  Her 
first  feeling  of  surprise  changed  instantly  to 
alarm.     Clara  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot, 

"What  is  the  matter?  What  has  frightened 
you,  my  dear?" 

"Lucy!     I /mi'e  heard  of  him!" 

"Richard  Wardour  again?" 

"Remember  what  I  told  you.  I  have  heard 
every  word  of  the  conversation  between  Captain 
Helding  and  your  husband.  A  man  came  to  the 
captain  this  morning  and  volunteered  to  join  the 
Wanderer.  The  captain  has  taken  him.  The 
man  is  Richard  Wardour." 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  52? 

"  Yoli  don't  mean  it !  Are  you  sure?  Did  you 
hear  Captain  Helding  mention  his  name?" 

"No." 

"Then  how  do  you  know  it's  Richard  War- 
dour?" 

"Don't  ask  me!  I  am  as  certain  of  it,  as  that 
I  am  standing  here !  They  are  going  away  to- 
gether, Lucy — away  to  the  eternal  ice  and  snow. 
My  foreboding  has  come  true!  The  two  will 
meet — the  man  who  is  to  marry  ine  and  the 
man  whose  heart  I  have  broken!" 

"Your  foreboding  has  not  come  true,  Clara! 
The  men  have  not  met  here — the  men  are  not 
likely  to  meet  elsewhere.  They  are  appointed  to 
separate  ships.  Frank  belongs  to  the  Sea-meiv, 
and  Wardour  to  the  Wanderer.  See !  Captain 
Helding  has  done.  My  husband  is  coming  this 
way.    Let  me  make  sure.    Let  me  speak  to  him. ' ' 

Lieutenant  Crayford  returned  to  his  wife.  She 
spoke  to  him  instantly. 

"William !  you  have  got  a  new  volunteer  who 
joins  the  Wa7iderer  f 

"What!  you  have  been  listening  to  the  cap- 
tain and  me?" 

"I  want  to  know  his  name?" 

"How  in  the  world  did  you  manage  to  hear 
what  we  said  to  each  other?" 

"His  name?  has  the  captain  given  you  his 
name?"    . 

' '  Don't  excite  yourself,  my  dear.  Look !  you 
are  positively  alarming  Miss  Burnham.  The 
new  volunteer  is  a  perfect  stranger  to  us.  There 
is  his  name — last  on  the  ship's  list." 


.>38  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Mrs.  Crayford  snatched  the  list  out  of  her  hus- 
band's hand,  and  read  the  name: 
**  Richard  Wardour." 


SECOND  SCENE.— THE  HUT  OF  ,  THE 
'' SEA-MEW.'' 


CHAPTER  VI. 

GoOD-BY  to  England !  Good-by  to  inhabited 
and  civilized  regions  of  the  earth ! 

Two  years  have  passed  since  the  voyagers 
sailed  from  their  native  shores.  The  enterprise 
has  failed — the  Arctic  expedition  is  lost  and  ice- 
locked  in  the  Polar  wastes.  The  good  ships 
Wandej^et^  and  Sea-mew,  entombed  in  ice,  will 
never  ride  the  buoyant  waters  more.  Stripped 
of  their  lighter  timbers,  both  vessels  have  been 
used  for  the  construction  of  huts,  erected  on  the 
nearest  land. 

The  largest  of  the  two  buildings  which  now 
shelter  the  lost  men  is  occupied  by  the  surviving 
officers  and  crew  of  the  Sea-mew.  On  one  side 
of  the  principal  room  are  the  sleeping  berths  and 
the  fire-place.  The  other  side  disclose^  a  broad 
door- way  (closed  by  a  canvas  screen),  which 
serves  as  a  means  of  communication  with  an 
inner  apartment,  devoted  to  the  superior  officers. 
A  hammock  is  slung  to  the  rough  raftered  roof 


VHF,    FROZRN    DRRP.  529 

of  the  main  room,  as  an  ^extra  bed.  A  man, 
completely  hidden  by  his  bedclothes,  is  sleeping 
in  the  hammock.  By  the  fireside  there  is  a  sec- 
ond man — supposed  to  be  on  the  watch — fast 
asleep,  poor  wretch !  at  the  present  moment.  Be- 
hind the  sleeper  stands  an  old  cask,  which  serves 
for  a  table.  The  objects  at  present  on  the  table 
are,  a  pestle  and  mortar,  and  a  saucepanful  of 
the  dry  bones  of  animals — in  plain  words,  the 
dinner  for  the  day.  By  way  of  ornament  to  the 
dull  brown  walls,  icicles  appear  in  the  crevices 
of  the  timber,  gleaming  at  intervals  in  the  red 
fire-light.  No  wind  whistles  outside  the  lonely 
dwelling — no  cry  of  bird  or  beast  is  heard.  In- 
doors, and  out-of-doors,  the  awful  silence  of  the 
Polar  desert  reigns,  for  the  moment,  undis- 
turbed. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  first  sound  that  broke  the  silence  came 
from  the  inner  apartment.  An  officer  lifted  the 
canvas  screen  in  the  hut  of  the  Sea-mew,  and 
entered  the  main  room.  Cold  and  privation  had 
sadly  thinned  the  ranks.  The  commander  of  the 
ship — Captain  Ebsworth — was  dangerously  ill. 
The  first  lieutenant  was  dead.  An  officer  of  the 
Wanderer  filled  their  places  for  the  time,  with 
Captain  Helding's  permission.  The  officer  so 
employed  was — Lieutenant  Crayford. 

He  approached  the  man  at  the  fireside,  and 
awakened  him. 


530  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"Jump  up,  Bateson!  It's  your  turn  to  be  re- 
ieved." 

The  relief  appeared,  rising  from  a  heap  of  old 
sails  at  the  back  of  the  hut.  Bateson  vanished, 
yawning,  to  his  bed.  Lieutenant  Crayford 
walked  backward  and  forward  briskly,  trying 
what  exercise  would  do  toward  warming  his 
blood. 

The  pestle  and  mortar  on  the  cask  attracted 
his  attention.  He  stopped  and  looked  up  at  the 
man  in  the  hammock. 

"I  must  rouse  the  cook,"  he  said  to  himself, 
with  a  smile.  "That  fellow  little  thinks  how 
useful  he  is  in  keeping  up  my  spirits.  The  most 
inveterate  croaker  and  grumbler  in  the  world — 
and  yet,  according  to  his  own  account,  the  only 
cheerful  man  in  the  whole  ship's  company.  John 
Want!  John  Want!     Rouse  up,  there!" 

A  head  rose  slowly  out  of  the  bedclothes,  cov- 
ered with  a  red  night-cap.  A  melancholy  nose 
rested  itself  on  the  edge  of  the  hammock.  A 
voice,  worthjT^  of  the  nose,  expressed  its  opinion 
of  the  Arctic  climate,  in  these  words : 

"Lord!  Lord!  here's  all  my  breath  on  my 
blanket.  Icicles,  if  you  please,  sir,  all  round  my 
mouth  and  all  over  my  blanket.  Every  time  I 
have  snored,  I've  frozen  something.  When  a 
man  gets  the  cold  into  him  to  that  extent  that 
he  ices  his  own  bed,  it  can't  last  much  longer. 
Never  mind !     I  don't  grumble. ' ' 

Crayford  tapped  the  saucepan  of  bones  impa- 
tiently. John  Want  lowered  himself  to  the  floor 
— grumbling  all  the  waj^ — by  a  rope  attached  to 


THE    FROZEN   DEEP.  531 

the  rafters  at  his  bed  head.  Instead  of  approach- 
ing his  superior  officer  and  his  saucepan,  he  hob- 
bled, shivering,  to  the  fire-place,  and  held  his 
chin  as  close  as  he  possibly  could  over  the  fire. 
Crayford  looked  after  him. 

"Halloo!  what  are  you  doing  there?" 

"Thawing  my  beard,  sir." 

"Come  here  directly,  and  set  to  work  on  these 
bones." 

John  Want  remained  immovably  attached  to 
the  fire-place,  holding  something  else  over  the 
fire.     Crayford  began  to  lose  his  temper. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  about  now?" 

"Thawing  my  watch,  sir.  It's  been  under 
my  pillow  all  night,  and  the  cold  has  stopped  it. 
Cheerful,  wholesome,  bracing  sort  of  climate  to 
live  in;  isn't  it,  sir?  Never  mind!  I  don't 
grumble." 

"No,  we  all  know  that.  Look  here!  Are 
these  bones  pounded  small  enough?" 

John  Want  suddenly  approached  the  lieuten- 
ant, and  looked  at  him  with  an  appearance  of 
the  deepest  interest. 

"You'll  excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said;  "how  verj^ 
hollow  your  voice  sounds  this  morning!" 

"Never  mind  my  voice.  The  bones!  the 
bones!" 

"Yes,  sir — the  bones.  They'll  take  a  trifle 
more  pounding.  I'll  dp  my  best  with  them,  sir, 
for  your  sake." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

John  Want  shook  his  head,  and  looked  at 
Crayford  with  a  dreary  smile. 


532  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  mak- 
ing much  more  bone  soup  for  you,  sir.  Do  you 
think  yourself  you'll  last  long,  sir?  I  don't,  sav- 
ing your  presence.  I  think  about  another  week 
or  ten  days  will  do  for  us  all.  Never  mind  i  I 
don't  grumble." 

He  poured  the  bones  into  the  mortar,  and  be- 
gan to  pound  them— under  protest.  At  the  same 
moment  a  sailor  appeared,  entering  from  the 
inner  hut. 

"A  message  from  Captain  Ebs worth,  sir." 

"Well?" 

' '  The  captain  is  worse  than  ever  with  his  freez- 
ing pains,  sir.     He  wants  to  see  you  immediate- 

"I  will  go  at  once.     Rouse  the  doctor." 
Answering  in  those  terms,  Crayford  returned 
to  the  inner  hut,  followed  by  the  sailor.     John 
Want  shook  his  head  again,  and  smiled  more 
drearily  than  ever. 

"Rouse  the  doctor?"  he  repeated.  "Suppose 
the  doctor  should  be  frozen?  He  hadn't  a  ha'- 
porth  of  warmth  in  him  last  night,  and  his  voice 
sounded  like  a  whisper  in  a  speaking-trumpet. 
Will  the  bones  do  now?  Yes,  the  bones  will  do 
now.  Into  the  saucepan  with  you,"  cried  John 
Want,  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  "and 
flavor  the  hot  water  if  you  can!  When  Ire- 
member  that  I  was  once  an  apprentice  at  a  pastry- 
cook's—when I  think  of  the  gallons  of  turtle- 
soup  that  this  hand  has  stirred  up  in  a  jolly  hot 
kitchen — and  when  I  find  myself  mixing  bones 
and  hot  water  for  soup,  and  turning  into  ice  as 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  533 

fast  as  I  can ;  if  I  wasn't  of  a  cheerful  disposi- 
tion I  should  feel  inclined  to  grumble.  John 
Want!  John  Want!  whatever  had  you  done 
with  your  natural  senses  when  you  made  up 
your  mind  to  go  to  sea?" 

A  new  voice  hailed  the  cook,  speaking  from 
one  of  the  bed-places  in  the  side  of  the  hut.  It 
was  the  voice  of  Francis  Aldersley. 

"Who's  that  croaking  over  the  fire?" 

"Croaking?"  repeated  John  Want,  with  the 
air  of  a  man  who  considered  himself  the  object 
of  a  gratuitous  insult.  "Croaking?  You  don't 
find  your  own  voice  at  all  altered  for  the  worse — 
do  you,  Mr.  Frank?  I  don't  give  /^^m,"  John 
proceeded,  speaking  confidentially  to  himself, 
"more  than  six  hours  to  last.  He's  one  of  your 
grumblers." 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  asked  Frank. 

"I'm  making  bone  soup,  sir,  and  wondering 
why  I  ever  went  to  sea." 

"Well,  and  why  did  you  go  to  sea?" 

"I'm  not  certain,  Mr.  Frank.  Sometimes  I 
think  it  was  natural  perversity;  sometimes 
I  think  it  was  false  pride  at  getting  over 
sea-sickness;  sometimes  I  think  it  was  read- 
ing 'Robinson  Crusoe,'  and  books  warning  of 
me  not  to  go  to  sea." 

Frank  laughed.  "You're  an  odd  fellow. 
What  do  you  mean  by  false  pride  at  getting  over 
sea-sickness?  Did  you  get  over  sea-sickness  in 
some  new  way?" 

[John  Want's  dismal  face  brightened  in  spite 
of  himself.     Frank   Lad  recalled  to  the  cook's 


534  WORKS    OF    WIT.KIE    COLLINS. 

memory  one  of  the  noteworthy  passages  in  the 
cook's  life.] 

«  "That's  it,  sir!"  he  said.  "If  ever  a  man 
cured  sea-sickness  in  a  new  way  yet,  I  am  that 
man — I  got  over  it,  Mr.  Frank,  by  dint  of  hard 
eating.  I  was  a  passenger  on  board  a  packet- 
boat,  sir,  when  first  I  saw  blue  water.  A  nasty 
lopp  of  a  sea  came  on  at  dinner-time,  and  I  be- 
gan to  feel  queer  the  moment  the  soup  was  put 
on  the  table.  'Sick?'  says  the  captain.  'Rather, 
sir,'  says  I.  'Will  you  try  my  cure?'  says  the 
captain.  'Certainly,  sir,'  says  I.  'Is  your  heart 
in  your  mouth  yet?'  says  the  captain.  'Not 
quite,  sir,' says  I.  'Mock-turtlesoup?'  says  the 
captain,  and  helps  me.  I  swallow  a  couple  of 
spoonfuls,  and  turn  as  white  as  a  sheet.  The 
captain  cocks  his  eye  at  me.  'Go  on  deck,  sir,' 
says  he;  'get  rid  of  the  soup,  and  then  coine 
back  to  the  cabin.'  I  got  rid  of  the  soup,  and 
came  back  to  the  cabin.  'Cod's  head-and- 
shoulders,'  says  the  captain,  and  helps  me.  'I 
can't  stand  it,  sir,'  says  I.  'You  must,'  says  the 
captain,  'because  it's  the  cure.'  I  crammed 
down  a  mouthful,  and  turned  paler  than  ever. 
'Go  on  deck,'  says  the  captain.  'Get  rid  of  the 
cod's  head,  and  come  back  to  the  cabin. '  Off  I 
go,  and  back  I  come.  'Boiled  leg  of  mutton  and 
trimmings,'  sa3^s  the  captain,  and  helps  me.  'No 
fat,  sir,'  says  I.  'Fat's  the  cure,'  says  the  cap- 
tain, and  makes  me  eat  it.  'Lean's  the  cure,' 
says  the  captain,  and  makes  me  eat  it.  'Steady?' 
says  the  captain.  'Sick,' s^ys  I,  'Go  on  deck,' 
says  the  captain;  'get  rid  of  the  boiled  leg  of 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  535 

mutton  and  trimmings  and  come  back  to  the 
cabin.'  Off  I  go,  staggering — back  I  come, 
more  dead  than  alive.  'Deviled  kidneys, '  says 
the  captain.  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  got  'em  down. 
'Cure's  beginning,'  says  the  captain.  'Mutton- 
chop  and  pickles.'  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  got  them 
down.  'Broiled  ham  and  cayenne  pepper,'  says 
the  captain.  'Glass  of  stout  and  cranberry  tart. 
Want  to  go  on  deck  again?'  'No,  sir,'  says  I. 
'Cure's  done,'  says  the  captain.  'Never  you  give 
in  to  your  stomach,  and  your  stomach  will  end 
in  giving  in  to  you.''  " 

Having  stated  the  moral  purpose  of  his  story 
in  those  unanswerable  words,  John  Want  took 
himself  and  his  saucepan  into  the  kitchen.  A 
moment  later,  Crayfoixl  returned  to  the  hut  and 
astonished  Frank  Aldersley  by  an  unexpected 
question. 

"Have  you  anything  in  your  berth,  Frank, 
that  you  set  a  value  on?" 

Frank  looked  puzzled. 

"Nothing  that  I  set  the  smallest  value  on — 
when  I  am  out  of  it,"  he  replied.  "What  does 
your  question  mean?" 

"We  are  almost  as  short  of  fuel  as  we  are  of 
provisions,"  Crayford  proceeded.  "Your  berth 
will  make  good  firing.  I  have  directed  Bateson 
to  be  here  in  ten  minutes  with  his  ax." 

"Very    attentive    and    considerate    on    your 

part,"  said  Frank.     "What  is  to  become  of  me, 

if  you  please,  when  Bateson  has  chopped  my  bed, 

into  fire- wood?" 

"Can't  you  guess?" 
Vol.  4  ^  IS— 


536  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"I  suppose  the  cold  has  stupefied  nie.  The 
riddle  is  beyond  my  reading.  Suppose  you  give 
me  a  hint?" 

"Certainly.  There  will  be  beds  to  spare  soon 
— there  is  to  be  a  change  at  last  in  our  wretched 
lives  here.     Do  you  see  it  now?" 

Frank's  eyes  sparkled.  He  sprang  out  of  his 
berth,  and  waved  his  fur  cap  in  triumph. 

"See it?"  he  exclaimed;  "of  course  I  do!  The 
exploring  party  is  to  start  at  last.  Do  I  go  with 
the  expedition?" 

"It  is  not  very  long  since  you  were  in  the  doc- 
tor's hands,  Frank, "said  Crayford,  kindly.  "I 
doubt  if  you  are  strong  enough  yet  to  make  one 
of  the  exploring  party." 

"Strong  enough  or  not,"  returned  Frank, 
"any  risk  is  better  than  pining  and  perishing 
here.  Put  me  down,  Crayford,  among  those  who 
volunteer  to  go. ' ' 

"Volunteers  will  not  be  accepted,  in  this  case," 
said  Crayford,  "Captain  Helding  and  Captain 
Ebsworth  see  serious  objections,  as  we  are  situ- 
ated, to  that  method  of  proceeding. ' ' 

"Do  they  mean  to  keep  the  appointments  in 
their  own  hands?"  asked  Frank.  "I  for  one 
object  to  that." 

"Wait  a  little,"  said  Crayford.  "You  were 
playing  backgammon  the  other  day  with  one  of 
the  officers.  Does  the  board  belong  to  him  or  to 
you?" 

"It  belongs  to  me.  I  have  got  it  in  my  locker 
here.     What  do  you  want  with  it?" 

' '  I  want  the  dice  and  the  box  for  casting  lots. 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  53T 

The  captains  have  arranged — most  wisely,  as  I 
think — that  Chance  shall  decide  among  us  who 
goes  with  the  expedition  and  who  stays  behind 
in  the  huts.  The  officers  and  crew  of  the  Wan- 
derer will  be  here  in  a  few  minutes  to  cast  the 
lots.  Neither  you  nor  any  one  can  object  to  that 
way  of  deciding  among  us.  Officers  and  men 
alike  take  their  chance  together.  Nobody  can 
grumble." 

"I  am  quite  satisfied,"  said  Frank.  "But  I 
know  of  one  man  among  the  officers  who  is  sure 
to  make  objections." 

"Who  is  the  man?" 

"You  know  him  well  enough,  too.  The  'Bear 
of  the  Expedition, '  Richard  Wardour. ' ' 

"Frank!  Frank!  you  have  a  bad  habit  of  let- 
ting your  tongue  run  away  with  you.  Don't  re- 
peat that  stupid  nickname  when  you  talk  of  my 
good  friend,  Richard  Wardour. ' ' 

"Your  good  friend?  Crayford!  your  liking 
for  that  man  amazes  me. ' ' 

Crayford  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  Frank's 
shoulder.  Of  all  the  officers  of  the  Sea-mew, 
Crayford's  favorite  was  Frank, 

"Why  should  it  amaze  you?"  he  asked. 
"What  opportunities  have  you  had  oi  judging? 
You  and  Wardour  have  always  belonged  to  dif- 
ferent ships.  I  have  never  seen  you  in  War- 
dour's  society  for  five  minutes  together.  How 
can  you  form  a  fair  estimate  of  his  character?" 

"I  take  the  general  estimate  of  his  character," 
Frank  answered.  "He  has  got  his  nickname 
because  he  is  the  most  unpopular  man  in  his  ship. 


538  WORKS     OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Nobody  likes  him — there  must  be  some  reason 
for  that." 

"There  is  only  one  reason  for  it,"  Crayford 
rejoined.  "Nobody  understands  Richard  War- 
dour.  I  am  not  talking  at  random.  Remember, 
I  sailed  from  England  with  him  in  the  Wan- 
derer J  and  I  was  only  transferred  to  the  Sea- 
meiv  long  after  we  were  locked  up  in  the  ice.  I 
was  Richard  V/ ardour's  companion  on  board 
ship  for  months,  and  I  learned  there  to  do  him 
justice.  Under  all  his  outward  defects,  I  tell 
you,  there  beats  a  great  and  generous  heart. 
Suspend  your  opinion,  my  lad,  until  you  know 
iny  friend  as  well  as  I  do.  No  more  of  this  now. 
Give  me  the  dice  and  the  box." 

Frank  opened  his  locker.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment the  silence  of  the  snowy  waste  outside  was 
broken  by  a  shouting  of  voices  hailing  the  hut — 
"/Sea-me?/;,  ahoy!" 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  sailor  on  watch  opened  the  outer  door. 
There,  plodding  over  the  ghastly  white  snow, 
were  the  officers  of  the  Wanderer  approaching 
the  hut.  There,  scattered  under  the  merciless 
black  sky,  were  the  crew,  with  the  dogs  and  the 
sledges,  waiting  the  word  which  was  to  start 
them  on  their  perilous  and  doubtful  journey. 

Captain  Helding  of  the  Wanderer,  accom- 
panied by  his  officers,  entered  the  hut,  in  high 
spirits   at  the   prospect   of   a  change.      Behind 


THE    FKOZKN    DKKP.  539 

them,  lounging  in  slowly  by  himself,  was  a  dark, 
sullen,  heavy-browed  man.  He  neither  spoke, 
nor  offered  his  hand  to  anybody ",  he  was  the  one 
person  present  who  seemed  to  be  perfectly  indif- 
ferent to  the  fate  in  store  for  him.  This  was  the 
man  whom  his  brother  officers  had  nicknamed 
the  Bear  of  the  Expedition.  In  other  words — 
Richard  Wardour. 

Crayford  advanced  to  welcome  Captain  Held- 
ing.  Frank,  remembering  the  friendly  reproof 
v/hich  he  had  just  received,  passed  over  the  other 
officers  of  the  Wanderer,  and  made  a  special 
effort  to  be  civil  to  Crnyford's  friend. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Wardour,"  he  said. 
"We  may  congratulate  each  other  on  the 
chance  of  leaving  this  horrible  place." 

' '  You  may  think  it  horrible, ' '  Wardour  re- 
torted; "I  like  it." 

"Like  it?     Good  Heavens!  why?" 

"Because  there  are  no  women  here." 

Frank  turned  to  his  brother  officers,  without 
making  any  further  advances  in  the  direction  of 
Richard  Wardour.  The  Bear  of  the  Expedition 
was  more  unapproachable  than  ever. 

In  the  meantime  the  hut  had  become  thronged 
by  the  able-bodied  officers  and  men  of  the  two 
ships.  Captain  Helding,  standing  in  the  midst 
of  them,  with  Crayford  by  his  side,  proceeded' to 
explain  the  purpose  of  the  contemplated  expedi- 
tion to  the  audience  which  surrounded  him. 

He  began  in  these  words : 

"Brother  officers  and  men  of  the  Wanderer 
and  Sea-meiv,  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  yOu,  very 


540  WORKS    OF    WILKIE   COLLINS. 

brieflj'',  the  reasons  which  have  decided  Captain 
Ebs worth  and  myself  on  dispatching  an  explor- 
ing party  in  search  of  help.  "Without  recalling 
all  the  hardships  we  have  suffered  for  the  last 
two  years — the  destruction,  first  of  one  of  our 
ships,  then  of  the  other;  the  death  of  some  of 
our  bravest  and  best  companions ;  the  vain  bat- 
tles we  have  been  fighting  with  the  ice  and  snow, 
and  boundless  desolation  of  these  inhospitable  re- 
gions— without  dwelling  on  these  things,  it  is 
my  duty  to  remind  you  that  this,  the  last  place 
in  which  we  have  taken  refuge,  is  far  beyond 
the  track  of  any  previous  expedition,  and  that 
consequently  our  chance  of  being  discovered  by 
any  rescuing  parties  that  may  be  sent  to  look 
after  us  is,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  a  chance  of  the 
most  uncertain  kind.  You  all  agree  with  me, 
gentlemen,  so  far?" 

The  officers  (with  the  exception  of  Wardour, 
who  stood  apart  in  sullen  silence)  all  agreed,  so 
far. 

The  captain  went  on. 

"It  is  therefore  urgently  necessary  that  we 
should  make  another,  and  probably  _a  last,  effort 
to  extricate  ourselves.  The  winter  is  not  far  off, 
game  is  getting  scarcer  and  scarcer,  our  stock 
of  provisions  is  running  low,  and  the  sick — 
especially,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  the  sick  in  the 
Wanderer^ s  hut — are  increasing  in  number  day 
by  day.  We  must  look  to  our  own  lives,  and  to 
the  lives  of  those  who  are  dependent  on  us;  and 
we  have  no  time  to  lose." 

The  officers  echoed  the  words  cheerfully. 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  541 

"Right!  right!     No  time  to  lose.'* 

Captain  Helding  resumed : 

"The  plan  proposed  is,  that  a  detachment  of 
the  able-bodied  officers  and  men  among  us  should 
set  forth  this  very  day,  and  make  another  effort 
to  reach  the  nearest  inhabited  settlements,  from 
which  help  and  provisions  may  be  dispatched  to 
those  who  remain  here.  The  new  direction  to 
be  taken,  and  the  various  precautions  to  be 
adopted,  are  all  drawn  out  ready.  The  only 
question  now  before  us  is,  Who  is  to  stop  here, 
and  who  is  to  undertake  the  journey?" 

The  officers  answered  the  question  with  one 
accord — ' '  Volunteers ! ' ' 

The  men  echoed  their  officers.  "Ay,  ay,  vol- 
unteers." 

Wardour  still  preserved  his  sullen  silence. 
Crayford  noticed  him,  standing  apart  from  the 
rest,  and  appealed  to  him  personally. 

"Do  you  say  nothing?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing,"  Wardour  answered.  "Go  or  stay, 
it's  all  one  to  me." 

"I  hope  you  don't  really  mean  that?"  said 
Crayford. 

"I  do." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,  Wardour." 

Captain  Helding  answered  the  general  sugges- 
tion in  favor  of  volunteering  by  a  question  which 
instantly  checked  the  rising  enthusiasm  of  the 
meeting. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "suppose  we  say  volunteers. 
Who  volunteers  to  stop  in  the  huts?" 

There  was  a  dead   silence.     The  officers  and 


543  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

men  looked  at  each  other  confusedly.  The  cap- 
tain continued : 

"You  see  we  can't  settle  it  by  volunteering. 
You  all  want  to  go.  Every  man  among  us  who 
has  the  use  of  his  limbs  naturally  wants  to  go. 
But  what  is  to  become  of  those  who  have  not 
got  the  use  of  their  limbs?  Some  of  us  must 
stay  here,  and  take  care  of  the  sick," 

Everybody  admitted  that  this  was  true. 

"So  we  get  back  again,"  said  the  captain,  "to 
the  old  question — Who  among  the  able-bodied  is 
to  go?  and  who  is  to  stay?  Captain  Ebsworth 
says,  and  I  say,  let  chance  decide  it.  Here  are 
dice.  The  numbers  run  as  high  as  twelve — 
double  sixes.  All  who  throw  under  six,  stay; 
all  who  throw  over  six,  go.  Officers  of  the 
Wanderer  and  the  Sea-meio,  do  you  agree  to 
that  way  of  meeting  the  difficulty?" 

All  the  officers  agreed,  with  the  one  exception 
of  Wardour,  who  still  kept  silence. 

"Men  of  the  Wanderer  and  8ea-meiu,  your 
officers  agree  to  cast  lots.    Do  you  agree  too?" 

The  men  agreed  without  a  dissentient  voice, 
Crayf  ord  handed  the  box  and  the  dice  to  Captain 
Helding. 

"You  throw  first,  sir.  Under  six,  'Stay,' 
Over  six,  'Go.'" 

Captain  Helding  cast  the  dice ;  the  top  of  the 
cask  serving  for  a  table.     He  threw  seven. 

"Go,"  said  Cray  ford.  "I  congratulate  you, 
sir.  Now  for  my  own  chance."  He  cast  the 
dice  in  his  turn.  Three!  "Stay!  Ah,  well! 
well !    if   I   can  do  my  dut}^,  and  be  of  use  to 


THK    FROZEN    DEEP.  543 

others,  what  does  it  matter  whether  I  go  or  stay? 
Wardour,  you  are  next,  in  the  absence  of  your 
first  lieutenant." 

Wardour  prepared  to  cast,  without  shaking 
the  dice. 

"Shake  the  box,  man!"  cried  Crayford. 
"Give  yourself  a  chance  of  luck!" 

Wardour  persisted  in  letting  the  dice  fall  out 
carelessly,  just  as  they  lay  in  the  box. 

"Not  I!"  he  muttered  to  himself .  "I've  done 
with  luck."  Saying  those  words,  he  threw  down 
the  empty  box,  and  seated  himself  on  the  nearest 
chest,  without  looking  to  see  how  the  dice  had 
fallen. 

Crayford  examined  them.  "Six!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "There!  you  have  a  second  chance,  in 
spite  of  yourself.  You  are  neither  under  nor 
over — you  throw  again." 

"Bah!"  growled  the  Bear.  "It's  not  worth 
the  trouble  of  getting  up  for.  Somebody  else 
throw  for  me."  He  suddenly  looked  at  Frank. 
"You!  you  have  got  what  the  women  call  a 
lucky  face." 

Frank  appealed  to  Crayford.     "Shall  I?" 

"Yes,  if  he  wishes  it,"  said  Crayford. 

Frank  cast  the  dice.  "Two!  He  stays! 
Wardour,  I  am  sorry  I  have  thrown  against 
you." 

"Go  or  stay,"  reiterated  Wardour,  "it's  all 
one  to  me.  You  wall  be  luckier,  young  one, 
when  you  cast  for  yourself. ' ' 

Frank  cast  for  himself. 

"Eight.     Hurra!     I  go!" 


544  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  said  Wardour.  "The 
chance  was  yours.  You  have  thriven  on  my  ill 
luck." 

He  rose,  as  he  spoke,  to  leave  the  hut.  Cray- 
ford  stopped  him. 

"Have  you  anything  particular  to  do,  Rich- 
ard?" 

"What  has  anybody  to  do  here?" 

"Wait  a  little,  then.  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
when  this  business  is  over." 

"Are  you  going  to  give  me  any  more  good 
advice?" 

"Don't  look  at  me  in  that  sour  way,  Richard. 
I  am  going  to  ask  you  a  question  about  some- 
thing which  concerns  yourself." 

Wardour  yielded  without  a  word  more.  He 
returned  to  his  chest,  and  cynically  composed 
himself  to  slumber.  The  casting  of  the  lots  went 
on  rapidly  among  the  officers  and  men.  In  an- 
other half-hour  chance  had  decided  the  question 
of  "Go"  or  "Stay"  for  all  alike.  The  men  left 
the  hut.  The  officers  entered  the  inner  apartment 
for  a  last  conference  with  the  bed-ridden  captain 
of  the  Sea-mew.  Wardour  and  Crayford  were 
left  together,  alone. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Crayford  touched  his  friend  on  the  shoulder 
to  rouse  him.  Wardour  looked  up,  impatiently, 
with  a  frown. 


THE   FROZEN    DEEP.  bib 

*'I  was  just  asleep,"  he  said.  "Why  do  you 
wake  me?" 

"Look  round  you,  Richard.     We  are  alone." 

"Well— and  what  of  that?" 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  you  privately;  and  this  is 
my  opportunity.  You  have  disappointed  and 
surprised  me  to-day.  Why  did  you  say  it  was 
all  one  to  you  whether  you  went  or  stayed?  Why 
are  you  the  only  man  among  us  who  seems  to  be 
perfectly  indifferent  whether  we  are  rescued  or 
not?" 

"Can  a  man  always  give  a  reason  for  what  is 
strange  in  his  manner  or  his  words?"  Wardour 
retorted. 

"He  can  try,"  said  Crayford,  quietly — "when 
his  friend  asks  him. " 

Wardour's  manner  softened. 

"That's  true, "  he  said.  "I  will  try.  Do  you 
remember  the  first  night  at  sea  when  we  sailed 
from  England  in  the  Wanderet^  f 

"As  well  as  if  it  was  yesterday." 

"A  calm,  still  night,"  the  other  went  on, 
thoughtfully.  "No  clouds,  no  stars.  Nothing 
in  the  sky  but  the  broad  moon,  and  hardly  a 
ripple  to  break  the  path  of  light  she  made  in  the 
quiet  water.  Mine  was  the  middle  watch  that 
night.  You  came  on  deck,  and  found  me 
alone — " 

He  stopped.  Crayford  took  his  hand,  and 
finished  the  sentence  for  him. 

"Alone — and  in  tears." 

"The  last  I  shall  ever  shed,"  Wardour  added, 
bitterly. 


54G  WORKS    OP    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"Don't  say  tliat!  There  are  times  when  a  man 
is  to  be  pitied  indeed,  if  he  can  shed  no  tears. 
Go  on,  Richard." 

Wardour  proceeded — still  following  the  old 
recollections,  still  preserving  his  gentler  tones. 

"I  should  have  quarreled  with  any  other  man 
who  had  surprised  me  at  that  moment,"  he  said. 
"There  was  something,  I  suppose,  in  your  voice 
when  you  asked  my  pardon  for  disturbing  me, 
that  softened  m}^  heart.  I  told  you  I  had  met 
with  a  disappointment  which  had  broken  me  for 
life.  There  was  no  need  to  explain  further.  The 
only  hopeless  wretchedness  in  this  world  is  the 
wretchedness  that  women  cause." 

"And  the  only  unalloyed  happiness,"  said 
Crayford,  "the  happiness  that  women  bring." 

"That  may  be  your  experience  of  them," 
Wardour  answered;  "mine  is  different.  All  the 
devotion,  the  patience,  the  humility,  the  worship 
that  there  is  in  man,  I  laid  at  the  feet  of  a  wo- 
man. She  accepted  the  offering  as  women  do — 
accepted  it,  easily,  gracefully,  unfeelingly — ac- 
cepted it  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  left  England 
to  win  a  high  place  in  my  profession,  before  I 
dared  to  win  her.  I  braved  danger,  and  faced 
death.  I  staked  my  life  in  the  fever  swamps  of 
Africa,  to  gain  the  promotion  that  I  only  desired 
for  her  sake — and  gained  it.  I  came  back  to 
give  her  all,  and  to  ask  nothing  in  return,  but  to 
rest  my  weary  heart  in  the  sunshine  of  her  smile. 
And  her  own  lips — the  lips  I  had  kissed  at  part- 
ing— told  me  that  another  man  had  robbed  me  of 
her,      1  spoke  but  few  words  when  I  heard  that 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  547 

confession,  and  left  her  forever.  'The  time  may 
come,'  I  told  her,  'when  I  shall  forgive  you. 
But  the  man  who  has  robbed  me  of  you  shall  rue 
the  day  when  you  and  he  first  met.'  Don't  ask 
me  who  he  was!  I  have  yet  to  discover  him. 
The  treachery  had  been  kept  secret;  nobody 
could  tell  me  where  to  fiud  him;  nobody  could 
tell  me  who  he  was.  What  did  it  matter?  When 
I  had  lived  out  the  first  agony,  I  could  rely  on 
myself — I  could  be  patient,  and  bide  my  time." 

' '  Your  time ?     What  time  ? ' ' 

"The  time  when  I  and  that  man  shall  meet 
face  to  face.  I  knew  it  then;  I  know  it  now — 
it  was  written  on  my  heart  then,  it  is  written  on 
my  heart  now — we  two  shall  meet  and  know 
each  other !  With  that  conviction  strong  within 
me,  I  volunteered  for  this  service,  as  I  would 
have  volunteered  for  anything  that  set  work  and 
hardship  and  danger,  like  ramparts,  between  my 
misery  and  me.  With  that  conviction  strong 
within  me  still,  I  tell  you  it  is  no  matter  whether 
I  stay  here  with  the  sick,  or  go  hence  with  the 
strong.  I  shall  live  till  I  have  met  that  man ! 
There  is  a  day  of  reckoning  appointed  between 
us.  Here  in  the  freezing  cold,  or  away  in  the 
deadly  heat ;  in  battle  or  in  shipwreck ;  in  the 
face  of  starvation ;  under  the  shadow  of  pesti- 
lence— I,  though  hundreds  are  falling  round  me, 
I  shall  live !  live  for  the  coming  of  one  day !  live 
for  the  meeting  with  one  man!" 

He  stopped,  trembling,  body  and  soul,  under 
the  hold  that  his  own  terrible  superstition  had 
fastened  on  him.     Crayford  drew  back  in  silent 


548  WORKS     OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

horror.  Wardour  noticed  the  action — he  resented 
it — he  appealed,  in  defense  of  his  one  cherished 
conviction,  to  Cray  ford's  own  experience  of 
him. 

"Look  at  me!"  he  cried.  "Look  how  I  have 
lived  and  thriven,  with  the  heart-ache  gnawing 
at  me  at  home,  and  the  winds  of  the  icy  north 
whistling  round  me  here !  I  am  the  strongest 
man  among  you.  Why?  I  have  fought  through 
hardships  that  have  laid  the  best-seasoned  men 
of  all  our  party  on  their  backs.  Why?  What 
have  /  done,  that  my  life  should  throb  as  bravely 
through  every  vein  in  my  body  at  this  minute, 
and  in  this  deadly  place,  as  ever  it  did  in  the 
wholesome  breezes  of  home?  What  am  I  pre- 
served for?  I  tell  you  again,  for  the  coming  of 
one  daj'^ — for  the  meeting  with  one  man." 

He  paused  once  more.  This  time  Crayford 
spoke. 

"Richard!"  he  said,  "since  we  first  met,  I 
have  believed  in  your  better  nature,  against  all 
outward  appearance.  I  have  believed  in  you, 
firmly,  truly,  as  your  brother  might.  You  are 
putting  that  belief  to  a  hard  test.  If  your  enemj^ 
had  told  me  that  you  had  ever  talked  as  jon  talk 
now,  that  you  had  ever  looked  as  you  look  now, 
I  would  have  turned  my  back  on  him  as  the 
utterer  of  a  vile  calumny  against  a  just,  a  brave, 
an  upright  man.  Oh !  my  friend,  my  friend,  if 
ever  I  have  deserved  well  of  you,  put  awa}^ 
these  thoughts  from  your  heart!  Face  me  again, 
with  the  stainless  look  of  a  man  who  has  tram- 
pled under  his  feet  the  bloody  superstitions  of 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  540 

revenge,  and  knows  them  no  more!  Never, 
never,  let  the  time  come  when  I  cannot  offer  you 
my  hand  as  I  offer  it  now,  to  the  man  I  can  still 
admire — to  the  brother  I  can  still  love!" 

The  heart  that  no  other  voice  could  touch  felt 
that  appeal.  The  fierce  eyes,  the  hard  voice,  soft- 
ened under  Crayf  ord's  influence.  Richard  "War- 
dour's  head  sank  on  his  breast. 

"You  are  kinder  to  me  than  I  deserve,"  he 
said.  "Be  kinder  still,  and  forget  what  I  have 
been  talking  about.  No !  no  more  about  me ;  I 
am  not  worth  it.  We'll  change  the  subject,  and 
never  go  back  to  it  again.  Let's  do  something.^ 
Work,  Cray  ford— that's  the  true  elixir  of  our 
life !  Work,  that  stretches  the  muscles  and  sets 
the  blood  a-glowing.  Work,  that  tires  the  body 
and  rests  the  mind.  Is  there  nothing  in  hand 
that  1  can  do?  Nothing  to  cut?  nothing  to 
carry?" 

The  door  opened  as  he  put  the  question.  Bate- 
son — appointed  to  chop  Frank's  bed- place  into 
firing — appeared  punctually  with  his  ax.  War- 
dour,  without  a  word  of  warning,  snatched  the 
ax  out  of  the  man's  hand. 

"What  was  this  wanted  for?"  he  asked. 

"To  cut  up  Mr.  Aldersley's  berth  there  into 
firing,  sir." 

"I'll  do  it  for  you!  I'll  have  it  down  in  no 
time!"  He  turned  to  Cray  ford.  "You  needn't 
be  afraid  about  me,  old  friend,  I  am  going  to 
do  the  right  thing.  I  am  going  to  tire  my  body 
and  rest  my  mind." 

The  evil  spirit  in  him  was  plainly  subdued — 


550  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

for  the  time,  at  least.  Crayford  took  his  hand 
in  silence;  and  then  (followed  by  Bateson)  left 
him  to  his  work. 


CHAPTER   X. 

Ax  in  hand,  Wardour  approached  Frank's 
bed-place. 

"If  I  could  onl}^  cut  the  thoughts  out  of  me," 
he  said  to  himself,  "as  I  am  going  to  cut  the 
billets  out  of  this  wood!"  He  attacked  the  bed- 
place  with  the  ax,  like  a  man  who  well  knew  the 
use  of  his  instrument.  "Oh  me!"  bethought, 
sadly,  "if  I  had  only  been  born  a  carpenter  in- 
stead of  a  gentleman !  A  good  ax.  Master  Bate- 
son— I  wonder  where  you  got  it?  Something 
like  a  grip,  my  man,  on  this  handle.  Poor  Cray- 
ford!  his  words  stick  in  my  throat.  A  fine  fel- 
low !  a  noble  fellow !  No  use  thinking,  no  use 
regretting ;  what  is  said,  is  said.  Work !  work ! 
work!" 

Plank  after  plank  fell  out  on  the  floor.  He 
laughed  over  the  easy  task  of  destruction.  "Aha! 
j^oung  Aldersley!  It  doesn't  take  much  to  de- 
molish your  bed-place.  I'll  have  it  down!  I 
would  have  the  whole  hut  down,  if  they  would 
only  give  me  the  chance  of  chopping  at  it!" 

A  long  strip  of  wood  fell  to  his  ax — long 
enough  to  require  cutting  in  two.  He  turned 
it,  and  stooped  over  it.  Something  caught  his 
eye — letters   carved   in   the   wood.      He  looked 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  551 

closer.  The  letters  were  very  faintly  and  badly 
CTit.  He  could  only  make  out  the  first  three  of 
them ;  and  even  of  those  he  was  not  quite  certain. 
They  looked  like  C  L  A — if  they  looked  like 
anything.  He  threw  down  the  strip  of  wood 
irritably. 

"D — n  the  fellow  (whoever  he  is)  who  cut  this! 
Why  should  he  carve  that  name,  of  all  the  names 
in  the  world?" 

He  paused,  considering — then  determined  to 
go  on  again  with  his  self-imposed  labor.  He 
was  ashamed  of  his  own  outburst.  He  looked 
eagerly  for  the  ax.  "Work,  work!  Nothing  for 
it  but  work."  He  found  the  ax,  and  went  on 
again. 

He  cut  out  another  plank. 

He  stopped,  and  looked  at  it  suspiciously. 

There  was  carving  again,  on  this  plank.  The 
letters  F.  and  A.  appeared  on  it. 

He  put  down  the  ax.  There  were  vague  mis- 
givings in  him  which  he  was  not  able  to  realize. 
The  state  of  his  own  mind  was  fast  becoming  a 
puzzle  to  him. 

"  More  carving, "  he  said  to  himself.  "That's 
the  way  these  young  idlers  employ  their  long 
hours.  F.  A.  ?  Those  must  be  his  initials — 
Frank  Aldersley.  Who  carved  the  letters  on 
the  other  plank?     Frank  Aldersley,  too?" 

He  turned  the  piece  of  wood  in  his  hand  nearer 
to  the  light,  and  looked  lower  down  it.  More 
carving  again,  lower  down !  Under  the  initials 
F.  A.  were  two  more  letters — C.  B. 

"C.  B.?"  he  repeated  to  himself .  "His  sweet- 


552  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

heart's  initials,  I  suppose?  Of  course — at  his 
age — his  sweetheart's  initials." 

He  paused  once  more.  A  spasm  of  inner  pain 
showed  the  shadow  of  its  mysterious  passage, 
outwardly  on  his  face. 

"ijTer  cipher  is  C.  B.,"  he  said,  in  low,  broken 
tones.     "C.  B. — Clara  Burnham." 

He  waited,  with  the  plank  in  his  hand;  re- 
peating the  name  over  and  over  again,  as  if  it 
was  a  question  he  was  putting  to  himself. 

"Clara  Burnham?     Clara  Burnham?" 

He  dropped  the  plank,  and  turned  deadly  pale 
in  a  moment.  His  eyes  wandered  furtively 
backward  and  forward  between  the  strip  of  wood 
on  the  floor  and  the  half -demolished  berth.  "Oh, 
God!  what  has  come  to  me  now?"  he  said  to 
himself,  in  a  whisper.  He  snatched  up  the  ax, 
with  a  strange  cry — something  between  rage  and 
terror.  He  tried — fiercely,  desperately  tried — to 
go  on  with  his  work.  No !  strong  as  he  was,  he 
could  not  use  the  ax.  His  hands  were  helpless; 
they  trembled  incessantly.  He  went  to  the  fire; 
he  held  his  hands  over  it.  They  still  trembled 
incessantly;  they  infected  the  rest  of  him.  He 
shuddered  all  over.  He  knew  fear.  His  own 
thoughts  terrified  him. 

"Crayford!"  he  cried  out.  "Crayford!  come 
here,  and  let's  go  hunting." 

No  friendly  voice  answered  him.  No  friendly 
face  showed  itself  at  the  door. 

An  interval  passed ;  and  there  came  over  him 
another  change.  He  recovered  his  self-possession 
almost  as  suddenly  as  he  had  lost  it.     A  smile 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  55;' 

—a  horrid,  deforming,  uonatural  smile— spread 
slowly,  stealthily,  devilishly  over  his  face.  He 
left  the  fire;  he  put  the  ax  away  softly  in  a  cor- 
ner; he  sat  down  in  his  old  place,  deliberately 
self-abandoned  to  a  frenzy  of  vindictive  joy.  He 
had  found  the  man !  There,  at  the  end  of  the 
world— there,  at  the  last  fight  of  the  Arctic  voy- 
agers against  starvation  and  death,  he  had  found 
the  man ! 

The  minutes  passed. 

He  became  conscious,  on  a  sudden,  of  a  freez- 
ing stream  of  air  pouring  into  the  room. 

He  turned,  and  saw  Crayford  opening  the 
door  of  the  hut.  A  man  was  behind  him.  War- 
dour  rose  eagerly,  and  looked  over  Crayford 's 
shoulder. 

Was  it— could  it  be— the  man  who  had  carved 
the  letters  on  the  plank?  Yes!  Frank  Aldersley! 


CHAPTER   XL 

"Still  at  work!"  Crayford  exclaimed,  look- 
ing at  the  half- demolished  bed-place.  "Give 
yourself  a  little  rest,  Richard.  The  exploring 
party  is  ready  to  start.  If  you  wish  to  take 
leave  of  your  brother  ofiScers  before  they  go,  you 
have  no  time  to  lose." 

He  checked  himself  there,  looking  Wardour 
full  in  the  face. 

"Good  Heavens!"  he  cried,  "how  pale  you 
are!     Has  anything  happened?" 


554  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Frank — searching  in  his  locker  for  articles  of 
clothing  which  he  might  require  on  the  journey 
— looked  round.  He  was  startled,  as  Crayford 
had  been  startled,  by  the  sudden  change  in  War- 
dour  since  they  had  last  seen  him. 

"Are  you  ill?"  he  asked.  "I  hear  you  have 
been  doing  Bateson's  work  for  him.  Have  you 
hurt  yourself?" 

Wardour  suddenly  moved  his  head,  so  as  to 
hide  his  face  from  both  Crayford  and  Frank.  He 
took  out  his  handkerchief,  and  wound  it  clumsily 
round  his  left  hand. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "I  hurt  myself  with  the  ax. 
It's  nothing.  Never  mind.  Pain  always  has  a 
curious  effect  on  me.  I  tell  you  it's  nothing! 
Don't  notice  it!" 

He  turned  his  face  toward  them  again  as  sud- 
denly as  he  had  turned  it  away.  He  advanced 
a  few  steps,  and  addressed  himself  with  an  un- 
easy familiarity  to  Frank. 

"I  didn't  answer  you  civilly  when  you  spoke 
to  me  some  little  time  since.  I  mean  when  I 
first  came  in  here  along  with  the  rest  of  them.  I 
apologize.  Shake  hands!  Ho  ware  you?  Readj- 
for  the  march?" 

Frank  met  the  oddly  abrupt  advance  which 
had  been  made  to  him  with  perfect  good  humor. 

"I  am  glad  to  be  friends  with  you,  Mr.  War- 
dour.  I  wish  I  was  as  well  seasoned  to  fatigue 
as  you  are." 

Wardour  burst  into  a  hard,  joyless,  unnatural 
laugh. 

"Not  strong,   eh?     You  don't  look  it.      The 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  555 

dice  had  better  have  sent  me  away,  and  kept 
you  here,  I  never  felt  in  better  condition  in 
my  life."  He  paused  and  added,  with  his  eye 
on  Frank  and  with  a  strong  emphasis  on  the 
words:  "We  men  of  Kent  are  made  of  tough 
material." 

Frank  advanced  a  step  on  his  side,  with  a  new 
interest  in  Richard  Wardour. 

"You  come  from  Kent?"  he  said, 

"Yes.  From  East  Kent."  He  waited  a  little 
once  more,  and  looked  hard  at  Frank.  "Do  you 
know  that  part  of  the  country?"  he  asked. 

' ' I  ought  to  know  something  about  East  Kent, ' ' 
Frank  answered.  "Some  dear  friends  of  mine 
once  lived  there." 

"Friends  of  yours?"  Wardour  repeated.  "Ope 
of  the  county  families,  I  suppose?" 

As  he  pat  the  question,  he  abruptly  looked 
over  his  shoulder.  He  was  standing  between 
Crayford  and  Frank.  Crayford,  taking  no  part 
in  the  conversation,  had  been  watching  him,  and 
listening  to  him  more  and  more  attentively  as 
that  conversation  went  on.  Within  the  last 
moment  or  two  Wardour  had  become  instinct- 
ively conscious  of  this.  He  resented  Crayford's 
conduct  with  needless  irritability. 

"Why  are  you  staring  at  me?"  he  asked. 

' '  Why  are  you  1  ooking  unlike  yourself  ? ' '  Cray- 
ford answered,  quietly. 

Wardour  made  no  reply.  He  renewed  the 
conversation  with  Frank. 

"One  of  the  county  families?"  he  resumed. 
"The  Winterbys  of  Yew  Grange,  I  dare  say?" 


556  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"No,"  said  Frank;  "but  friends  of  the  With- 
erbys,  very  likely.     The  Bnrnhams." 

Desperately  as  he  struggled  to  maintain  it, 
Wardour's  self-control  failed  him.  He  started 
violently.  The  clumsily-wound  handkerchief 
fell  off  his  hand.  Still  looking  at  him  attentively, 
Crayford  picked  it  up. 

"There  is  your  handkerchief,  Richard,"  he 
said.     "Strange!" 

"What  is  strange?" 

"You  told  us  you  had  hurt  yourself  with  the 
ax—" 

"Well?" 

"There  is  no  blood  on  your  handkerchief." 

Wardour  snatched  the  handkerchief  out  of 
Crayford's  hand,  and,  turning  away,  approached 
the  outer  door  of  the  hut.  "No  blood  on  the 
handkerchief,"  he  said  to  himself.  "There  may 
be  a  stain  or  two  when  Crayford  sees  it  again." 
He  stopped  within  a  few  paces  of  the  door,  and 
spoke  to  Crayford.  "You  recommended  me  to 
take  leave  of  my  brother  officers  before  it  was 
too  late,"  he  said.  "I  am  going  to  follow  your 
advice." 

The  door  was  opened  from  the  outer  side  as  he 
laid  his  hand  on  the  lock. 

One  of  the  quartermasters  of  the  Wanderer 
entered  the  hut. 

"Is  Captain  Helding  here,  sir?"  he  asked,  ad- 
dressing himself  to  "Wardour. 

Wardour  pointed  to  Crayford. 

"The  lieutenant  will  tell  you,"  he  said. 

Crayford  advanced  and  questioned  the  quar- 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  55T 

termaster.     "What  do  you  want  with  Captain 
Helding?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  a  report  to  make,  sir.  There  has  been 
an  accident  on  the  ice." 

"To  one  of  your  men?" 

"No,  sir.  •   To  one  of  our  officers." 

Wardour,  on  the  point  of  going  out,  paused 
when  the  quartermaster  made  that  reply.  For  a 
moment  he  considered  with  himself.  Then  he 
walked  slowly  back  to  the  part  of  the  room  in 
which  Frank  was  standing.  Crayford,  directing 
the  quartermaster,  pointed  to  the  arched  door, 
way  in  the  side  of  the  hut. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  of  the  accident,"  he 
said.  "You  will  find  Captain  Helding  in  that 
room." 

For  the  second  time,  with  singular  persistency, 
Wardour  renewed  the  conversation  with  Frank. 

"So  you  knew  the  Burnhams?"  he  said. 
"What  became  of  Clara  when  her  father  died?" 

Frank's  face  flushed  angrily  on  the  instant. 

"Clara!"  he  repeated.  "What  authorizes  you 
to  speak  of  Miss  Burnham  in  that  familiar  man- 
ner?" 

Wardour  seized  the  opportunity  of  quarreling 
with  him. 

"What  right  have  you  to  ask?"  he  retorted, 
coarsely. 

Frank's  blood  was  up.  He  forgot  his  promise 
to  Clara  to  keep  their  engagement  secret — he  for- 
got ever3'-thing  but  the  unbridled  insolence  of 
Wardovir's  language  and  manner. 

"A  right  which  I  insist  on  your  respecting," 


558  WORKS    OF    WILKIE   COLLINS. 

he  answered.  "The  right  of  being  engaged  to 
marry  her." 

Crayford's  steady  eyes  were  still  on  the  watch, 
and  Wardour  felt  them  on  him.  A  little  more 
and  Crayford  might  openly  interfere.  Even 
Wardour  recognized  for  once  the  necessity  of 
controlling  his  temper,  cost  him  what  it  might. 
He  made  his  apologies,  with  overstrained  polite- 
ness, to  Frank. 

"Impossible  to  dispute  such  a  right  as  yours," 
he  said.  ' '  Perhaps  you  will  excuse  me  when  you 
know  that  I  am  one  of  Miss  Burnham's  old 
friends.  My  father  and  her  father  were  neigh- 
bors. "We  have  always  met  like  brother  and 
sister — " 

Frank  generously  stopped  the  apology  there. 

"Say  no  more,"  he  interposed.  "I  was  in  the 
wrong — I  lost  my  temper.    Pray  forgive  me." 

Wardour  looked  at  him  with  a  strange,  reluc- 
tant interest  while  he  was  speaking.  Wardour 
asked  an  extraordinary  question  when  he  had 
done. 

"Is  she  very  fond  of  you?" 

Frank  burst  out  laughing. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "come  to  our  wed- 
ding, and  judge  for  yourself." 

"Come  to  your  wedding?"  As  he  repeated 
the  words  Wardour  stole  one  glance  at  Frank, 
which  Frank  (employed  in  buckling  his  knap- 
sack) failed  to  see.  Crayford  noticed  it,  and 
Crayford's  blood  ran  cold.  Comparing  the  words 
which  Wardour  had  spoken  to  him  while  they 
were  alone  together  with  the  words  that  had  just 


THE  FROZEN   DEEP.  559 

passed  in  his  presence,  he  could  draw  but  one 
conchision.  The  woman  whom  Wardour  had 
loved  and  lost  was — Clara  Burnham.  The  man 
who  had  robbed  him  of  her  was  Frank  Aldersley. 
And  Wardour  had  discovered  it  in  the  interval 
since  thej^had  last  met.  "Thank  God!"  thought 
Crayford,  "the  dice  have  parted  them !  Frank 
goes  with  the  expedition,  and  "Wardour  stays 
behind  with  me." 

The  reflection  had  barely  occurred  to  him — 
Frank's  thoughtless  invitation  to  Wardour  had 
just  passed  his  lips — when  the  canvas  screen  over 
the  doorway  was  drawn  aside.  Captain  Helding 
and  the  officers  who  were  to  leave  with  the  ex- 
ploring party  returned  to  the  main  room  on  their 
way  out.  Seeing  Crayford,  Captain  Helding 
stopped  to  speak  to  him. 

"I  have  a  casualty  to  report,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "which  diminishes  our  numbers  by  one. 
M}^  second  lieutenant,  who  was  to  have  joined 
the  exploring  party,  has  had  a  fall  on  the  ice. 
Judging  by  what  the  quartermaster  tells  me,  I 
am  afraid  the  poor  fellow  has  broken  his  leg." 

"I  will  supply  his  place,"  cried  a  voice  at  the 
other  end  of  the  hut. 

Everybody  looked  round.  The  man  who  had 
spoken  was  Richard  Wardour. 

Crayford  instantly  interfered — so  vehementlj^ 
as  to  astonish  all  who  knew  him. 

"No!"  he  said.  "Not  you,  Richard!  not  you!" 

"Why  not?"  Wardour  asked,  sternly. 

"Why  not,  indeed?"  added  Captain  Helding. 
"Wardour  is  the  very  man  to  be  useful  on  a 


560  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

long  march.  He  is  in  perfect  health,  and  he  is 
the  best  shot  among  us,  I  was  on  the  point  of 
proposing  him  myself. ' ' 

Crayford  failed  to  show  his  customary  respect 
for  his  superior  officer.  He  openly  disputed  the 
captain's  conclusion. 

"Wardour  has  no  right  to  volunteer,"  he  re- 
joined. "It  has  been  settled,  Captain  Helding, 
that  chance  shall  decide  who  is  to  go  and  who  is 
to  stay." 

"And  chance  lias  decided  it,"  cried  Wardour. 
"Do  you  think  we  are  going  to  cast  the  dice 
again,  and  give  an  officer  of  the  Sea-mew  a 
chance  of  replacing  an  officer  of  the  Watidet^er  9 
There  is  a  vacancy  in  our  party,  not  in  yours ; 
and  we  claim  the  right  of  filling  it  as  we  please. 
I  volunteer,  and  my  captain  backs  me.  Whose 
authority  is  to  keep  me  here  after  that?" 

"Gently,  Wardour,"  said  Captain  Helding. 
' '  A  man  who  is  in  the  right  can  afford  to  speak 
with  moderation."  He  turned  to  Crayford. 
"You  must  admit  yourself,"  he  continued,  "that 
Wardour  is  right  this  time.  The  missing  man 
belongs  to  my  command,  and  in  common  justice 
one  of  my  officers  ought  to  supply  his  place." 

It  was  impossible  to  dispute  the  matter  further. 
The  dullest  man  present  could  see  that  the  cap- 
tain's reply  was  unanswerable.  In  sheer  de- 
spair, Crayford  took  Frank's  arm  and  led  him 
aside  a  few  steps.  The  last  chance  left  of  parting 
the  two  men  was  the  chance  of  appealing  to 
Frank. 

"My  dear  boy,"  he  began,  "I  want  to  say  one 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  561 

friendly  word  to  you  on  the  subject  of  your 
health.  I  have  already,  if  you  remember,  ex- 
pressed m}'  doubts  whether  j'ou  are  strong  enough 
to  make  one  of  an  exploring  party.  I  feel  those 
"doubts  more  strongly  than  ever  at  this  moment. 
Will  you  take  the  advice  of  a  friend  who  wishes 
3^ou  well?" 

AVardour  had  followed  Crayford.  Wardour 
roughly  interposed  before  Frank  could  reply. 

"Let  him  alone!" 

Crayford  paid  no  heed  to  the  interruption.  He 
was  too  earnestl}^  bent  on  withdrawing  Frank 
from  the  expedition  to  notice  anything  that  was 
said  or  done  by  the  persons  about  him. 

"Don't,  pray  don't,  risk  hardships  which  you 
are  unfit  to  bear!"  he  went  on,  entreatingly, 
"Your  place  can  be  easily  filled.  Change  your 
mind,  Frank.     Stay  here  with  me." 

Again  Wardour  interfered.  Again  he  called 
out,  "Leave  him  alone!"  more  roughly  than 
ever.  Still  deaf  and  blind  to  everj^  consideration 
but  one,  Crayford  pressed  his  entreaties  on 
Frank. 

"You  owned  yourself  just  now  that  you  were 
not  well  seasoned  to  fatigue,"  he  persisted. 
"You  feel  (you  must  feel)  how  weak  that  last 
illness  has  left  you?  You  know  (I  am  sure  you 
know)  how  unfit  you  are  to  brave  exposure  to 
cold,  and  long  marches  over  the  snow." 

Irritated  beyond  endurance  by  Crayford 's  ob- 
stinacy; seeing,  or  thinking  he  saw,  signs  of 
3^ielding  in  Frank's  face,  Wardour  so  far  forgot 
himself  as  to  seize  Crayford  by  the  arm  and  at- 


562  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLL.INS. 

tempt  to  drag  him  away  from  Frank.  Crayford 
turned  and 'looked  at  him. 

"Richard,"  he  said,  very  quietly,  "j^ou  are 
not  yourself .     I  pity  you.     Drop  your  hand. " 

Wardour  relaxed  his  hold,  with  something  of 
the  sullen  submission  of  a  wild  animal  to  its 
keeper.  The  momentary  silence  which  followed 
gave  Frank  an  opportunity  of  speaking  at  last. 

"I  am  gratefully  sensible,  Crayford,"  he  be- 
gan, "of  the  interest  which  you  take  in  me — " 

"And  you  will  follow  my  advice?"  Crayford 
interposed,  eagerly. 

' '  My  mind  is  made  up,  old  friend, ' '  Frank  an- 
swered, firmly  and  sadly.  "Forgive  me  for  dis- 
appointing you.  I  am  appointed  to  the  expedi- 
tion. "With  the  expedition  I  go."  Removed 
nearer  to  Wardour.  In  his  innocence  of  all  sus- 
picion he  clapped  Wardour  heartily  on  the 
shoulder.  "When  I  feel  the  fatigue,"  said  poor 
simple  Frank,  "you  will  help  me,  comrade — 
won't  you?     Come  along!" 

Wardour  snatched  his  gun  out  of  the  hands  of 
the  sailor  who  was  carrying  it  for  him.  His 
dark  face  became  suddenly  irradiated  with  a  ter- 
rible joy. 

"Come!"  hecried.  "Over  the  snow  and  over 
the  ice !  Come !  where  no  human  footsteps  have 
ever  trodden,  and  where  no  human  trace  is  ever 
left." 

Blindly,  instinctively,  Crayford  made  an  effort 
to  part  them.  His  brother  officers,  standing 
near,  pulled  him  back.  They  looked  at  each 
other  anxiously.      The  merciless  cold,  striking 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  563 

its  victims  in  various  ways,  Jiad  struck  in  some 
instances  at  their  reason  first.  Everybody  loved 
Crayford.  Was  he,  too,  going  on  the  dark  way 
that  others  had  taken  before  him?  They  forced 
him  to  seat  himself  on  one  of  the  lockers. 
"Steady,  old  fellow!"  they  said  kindly — 
"steady!"  Crayford  yielded,  writhing  inwardly 
under  the  sense  of  his  own  helplessness.  What 
in  God's  name  could  he  do?  Could  he  denounce 
Wardour  to  Captain  Holding  on  bare  suspicion 
— without  so  much  as  the  shadow  of  a  proof  to 
justify  what  he  said?  The  captain  would  de- 
cline to  insult  one  of  his  officers  by  even  men- 
tioning the  monstrous  accusation  to  him.  The 
captain  would  conclude,  as  others  had  already 
concluded,  that  Crayford's  mind  was  giving  way 
under  stress  of  cold  and  privation.  No  hope — 
literally,  no  hope  now,  but  in  the  numbers  of 
the  expedition.  Officers  and  men,  they  all  liked 
Frank.  As  long  as  they  could  stir  hand  or  foot, 
they  would  help  him  on  the  way — they  would 
see  that  no  harm  came  to  him. 

The  word  of  command  was  given;  the  door 
was  thrown  open;  the  hut  emptied  rapidly.  Over 
the  merciless  white  snow — under  the  merciless 
black  sky — the  exploring  party  began  to  move. 
The  sick  and  helpless  men,  whose  last  hope  of 
rescue  centered  in  their  departing  messmates, 
cheered  faintly.  Some  few  whose  days  were 
numbered  sobbed  and  cried  like  women.  Frank's 
voice  faltered  as  he  turned  back  at  the  door  to 
say  his  last  words  to  the  friend  who  had  been  a 
father  to  him. 


564  WORKS    OF    WILKIE   COLLINS. 

"God  bless  you,  Crayford!" 

Cray  ford  broke  away  from  the  officers  near 
him;  and,  hurrying  forward,  seized  Frank  by 
both  hands.  Crayford  held  him  as  if  he  would 
never  let  him  go. 

' '  God  preserve  you,  Frank !  I  would  give  all 
I  have  in  the  world  to  be  with  you.  Good-by ! 
Good-by!" 

Frank  waved  his  hand — dashed  away  the 
tears  that  were  gathering  in  his  eyes — and  hur- 
ried out.  Crayford  called  after  him,  the  last, 
the  only  warning  that  he  could  give: 

"While  you  can  stand,  keep  with  the  main 
body,  Frank!" 

Wardour,  waiting  till  the  last — Wardour,  fol- 
lowing Frank  through  the  snow-drift — stopped, 
stepped  back,  and  answered  Crayford  at  the  door: 

"  While  he  can  stand,  he  keeps  with  Me." 


THIRD  SCENE. -THE  ICEBERG. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

Alone  !  alone  on  the  Frozen  Deep ! 

The  Arctic  sun  is  rising  dimly  in  the  dreary 
sky.  The  beams  of  the  cold  northern  moon, 
mingling  strangely  with  the  dawning  light, 
clothe  the  snowy  plains  in  hues  of  livid  gray. 
An  ice-field  on  the  far  horizon  is  moving  slowly 
southward  in  the  spectral  light.   Nearer,  a  stream 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  565 

of  open  water  rolls  its  slow  black  waves  past  the 
edges  of  the  ice.  Nearer  still,  following  the  drift, 
an  iceberg  rears  its  crags  and  pinnacles  to  the 
sky ;  here,  glittering  in  the  moonbeams ;  there, 
looming  dim  and  ghost-like  in  the  ashy  light. 

Midway  on  the  long  sweep  of  the  lower  slope 
of  the  iceberg,  what  objects  rise,  and  break  the 
desolate  monotony  of  the  scene?  In  this  awful 
solitude,  can  signs  appear  which  tell  of  human 
life?  Yes!  The  black  outline  of  a  boat  just 
shows  itself,  hauled  up  on  the  berg.  In  an  ice- 
cavern  behind  the  boat  the  last  red  embers  of  a 
dying  fire  flicker  from  time  to  time  over  the  fig- 
ures of  two  men.  One  is  seated,  resting  his  back 
against  the  side  of  the  cavern.  The  other  lies 
prostrate,  v^ith  his  head  on  his  comrade's  knee. 
The  first  of  these  men  is  awake,  and  thinking. 
The  second  reclines,  with  his  still  white  face 
turned  up  to  the  sky — sleeping  or  dead.  Days 
and  days  since,  these  two  have  fallen  behind  on 
the  march  of  the  expedition  of  relief.  Days  and 
days  since,  these  two  have  been  given  up  by 
their  weary  and  failing  companions  as  doomed 
and  lost.  He  who  sits  thinking  is  Richard  War- 
dour.  He  who  lies  sleeping  or  dead  is  Frank 
Aldersley. 

The  iceberg  drifts  slowly,  over  the  black  water, 
through  the  ashy  light.  Minute  by  minute  the 
dying  fire  sinks.  Minute  by  minute  the  deathly 
cold  creeps  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  lost  men. 

Richard  Wardour  rouses  himself  from  his 
thoughts — looks  at  the  still  white  face  beneath 
him — and  places  his  hand  on  Frank's  heart.     It 


566  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

still  beats  feebly.  Give  him  his  share  of  the  food 
and  fuel  still  stored  in  the  boat,  and  Frank  may 
live  through  it.  Leave  him  neglected  where  he 
lies,  and  his  death  is  a  question  of  hours — per- 
haps minutes;  who  knows? 

Richard  Wardour  lifts  the  sleeper's  head  and 
rests  it  against  the  cavern  side.  He  goes  to  the 
boat,  and  returns  with  a  billet  of  wood.  He 
stoops  to  place  the  wood  on  the  fire — and  stops. 
Frank  is  dreaming,  and  murmuring  in  his 
dream.  A  woman's  name  passes  his  lips.  Frank 
is  in  England  again — at  the  ball — whispering  to 
Clara  the  confession  of  his  love. 

Over  Richard  Wardour's  face  there  passes  the 
shadow  of  a  deadly  thought.  He  rises  from  the 
fire ;  he  takes  the  wood  back  to  the  boat.  His 
iron  strength  is  shaken,  but  it  still  holds  out. 
They  are  drifting  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  open 
sea.  He  can  launch  the  boat  without  help;  he 
can  take  the  food  and  the  fuel  with  him.  The 
sleeper  on  the  iceberg  is  the  man  who  has  robbed 
him  of  Clara — who  has  wrecked  the  hope  and 
the  happiness  of  his  life.  Leave  the  man  in 
his  sleep,  and  let  him  die ! 

So  the  tempter  whispers.  Richard  Wardour 
tries  his  strength  on  the  boat.  It  moves :  he  has 
got  it  under  control.  He  stops,  and  looks  round. 
Beyond  him  is  the  open  sea.  Beneath  him  is 
the  man  who  has  robbed  him  of  Clara.  The 
shadow  of  the  deadly  thought  grows  and  dark- 
ens over  his  face.  He  waits  with  his  hands  on 
the  boat — waits  and  thinks. 

The   iceberg    drifts   slowly-— over    tlie    black 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  567 

water ;  through  the  -Ashy  light.  Minute  by  min- 
ute, the  dying  fire  sinks.  Minute  by  minute, 
the  deathly  cold  creeps  nearer  to  the  sleeping 
man.  And  still  Richard  "Wardour  waits — waits 
and  thinks. 


FOURTH  SCENE.— THE  GARDEN. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

The  spring  has  come.  The  air  of  the  April 
night  just  lifts  the  leaves  of  the  sleeping  flowers. 
The  moon  is  queen  in  the  cloudless  and  starless 
sky.  The  stillness  of  the  midnight  hour  is 
abroad,  over  land  and  over  sea. 

In  a  villa  on  the  westward  shore  of  the  Isle 
of  Wight,  the  glass  doors  which  lead  from  the 
drawing-room  to  the  garden  are  yet  open.  The 
shaded  lamp  yet  burns  on  the  table.  A  lady  sits 
by  the  lamp,  reading.  From  time  to  time  she 
looks  out  into  the  garden,  and  sees  the  white- 
robed  figure  of  a  young  girl  pacing  slowly  to 
and  fro  in  the  soft  brightness  of  the  moonlight 
on  the  lawn.  Sorrow  and  suspense  have  set 
their  mark  on  the  lady.  Not  rivals  only,  but 
friends  who  formerly  admired  her,  agree  now 
that  she  looks  worn  and  aged.  The  more  merci- 
ful judgment  of  others  remarks,  with  equal  truth, 
that  her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  simple  grace  and 
grandeur  of  movement  have  lost  but  little  of 
Vol.  4  19— 


568  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

their  olden  charms.  The  truth  lies,  as  usual, 
between  the  two  extremes.  In  spite  of  sorrow 
and  suffering,  Mrs.  Crayford  is  the  beautiful 
Mrs.  Crayford  still. 

The  delicious  silence  of  the  hour  is  softly  dis- 
turbed by  the  voice  of  the  younger  lady  in  the 
garden. 

"Go  to  the  piano,  Lucy.  It  is  a  night  for 
music.  Play  something  that  is  worthy  of  the 
night." 

Mrs.  Crayford  looks  round  at  the  clock  on  the 
mantel-piece. 

"My  dear  Clara,  it  is  past  twelve !  Remember 
what  the  doctor  told  you.  You  ought  to  have 
been  in  bed  an  hour  ago. ' ' 

"Half  an  hour,  Lucy — give  me  half  an  hour 
more !  Look  at  the  moonlight  on  the  sea.  Is  it 
possible  to  go  to  bed  on  such  a  night  as  this? 
Play  something,  Lucy — something  spiritual  and 
divine." 

Earnestly  pleading  with  her  friend,  Clara  ad- 
vances toward  the  window.  She  too  has  suffered 
under  the  wasting  influences  of  suspense.  Her 
face  has  lost  its  youthful  freshness ;  no  delicate 
flush  of  color  rises  on  it  when  she  speaks.  The 
soft  gray  eyes  which  won  Frank's  heart  in  the 
by-gone  time  are  sadly  altered  now.  In  repose, 
they  have  a  dimmed  and  wearied  look.  In  ac- 
tion, they  are  wild  and  restless,  like  eyes  sud- 
denly wakened  from  startling  dreams.  Robed 
in  white — her  soft  brown  hair  hanging  loosely 
over  her  shoulders — there  is  something  weird 
and  ghost-like  in  the  girl,  as  she  moves  nearer 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  5G9 

and  nearer  to  the  window  in  the  full  light  of  the 
moon — pleading  for  music  that  shall  be  worthy 
of  the  mystery  and  the  beauty  of  the  night. 

"Will  you  come  in  here  if  I  play  to  you?"  Mrs. 
Crayford  asks.  "It  is  a  risk,  my  love,  to  be  out 
so  long  in  the  night  air. ' ' 

"No!  no!  I  like  it.  Play — while  I  am  out 
here  looking  at  the  sea.  It  quiets  me ;  it  com- 
forts me;  it  does  me  good." 

She  glides  back,  ghost-like,  over  the  lawn. 
Mrs.  Crayford  rises,  and  puts  down  the  volume 
that  she  has  been  reading.  It  is  a  record  of  ex- 
plorations in  the  Arctic  seas.  The  time  has 
gone  by  when  the  two  lonely  women  could  take 
an  interest  in  subjects  not  connected  with  their 
own  anxieties.  Now,  when  hope  is  fast  failing 
them — now,  when  their  last  news  of  the  Wan- 
derer and  the  Sea-meiv  is  news  that  is  more 
than  two  years  old — they  can  read  of  nothing, 
they  can  think  of  nothing,  but  dangers  and  dis- 
coveries, losses  and  rescues  in  the  terrible  Polar 
seas. 

Unwillingly,  Mrs.  Crayford  puts  her  book 
aside,  and  opens  the  piano — Mozart's  "Air  in 
A,  with  Variations,"  lies  open  on  the  instru- 
ment. One  after  another  she  plays  the  lovely 
melodies,  so  simply,  so  purely  beautiful,  of  that 
unpretending  and  unrivaled  work.  At  the  close 
of  the  ninth  Variation  (Clara's  favorite),  she 
pauses,  and  turns  toward  the  garden. 

"Shall  I  stop  there?"  she  asks. 

There  is  no  answer.  Has  Clara  wandered 
away  out  of  hearing  of  the  music  that  she  loves 


570  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

— the  music  that  harmonizes  so  subtly  with  the 
tender  beauty  of  the  night?  Mrs.  Crayford  rises 
and  advances  to  the  window. 

No !  there  is  the  white  figure  standing  alone 
on  the  slope  of  the  lawn — the  head  turned  away 
from  the  house ;  the  face  looking  out  over  the 
calm  sea,  whose  gently  rippling  waters  end  in 
the  dim  line  on  the  horizon  which  is  the  line  of 
the  Hampshire  coast. 

Mrs.  Crayford  advances  as  far  as  the  path  be- 
fore the  window,  and  calls  to  her. 

"Clara!" 

Again  there  is  no  answer.  The  white  figure 
still  stands  immovably  in  its  place. 

With  signs  of  distress  in  her  face,  but  with 
no  appearance  of  alarm,  Mrs.  Crayford  returns 
to  the  room.  Her  own  sad  experience  tells  her 
what  has  happened.  She  summons  the  servants 
and  directs  them  to  wait  in  the  drawing-room 
until  she  calls  to  them.  This  done,  she  returns 
to  the  garden,  and  approaches  the  mysterious 
figure  on  the  lawn. 

Dead  to  the  outer  world,  as  if  she  lay  already 
in  her  grave — insensible  to  touch,  insensible  to 
sound,  motionless  as  stone,  cold  as  stone — Clara 
stands  on  the  moonlit  lawn,  facing  the  seaward 
view.  Mrs.  Crayford  waits  at  her  side,  patiently 
watching  for  the  change  which  she  knows  is  to 
come.  " Catalepsy ,"  as  some  call  it--" hysteria," 
as  others  say — this  alone  is  certain,  the  same  in- 
terval always  passes;  the  same  change  always 
appears. 

It  comes  now.  Not  a  change  in  her  eyes ;  they 


THE    KKOZEN    DEEP.  571 

still  remain  wide  open,  fixed  and  glassy.  The 
first  movement  is  a  movement  of  her  hands. 
They  rise  slowly  from  her  side  and  waver  in  the 
air  like  the  hands  of  a  person  groping  in  the 
dark.  Another  interval,  and  the  movement 
spreads  to  her  lips :  they  part  and  tremble.  A 
few  minutes  more,  and  words  begin  to  drop,  one 
by  one,  from  those  parted  lips — words  spoken  in 
a  lost,  vacant  tone,  as  if  she  is  talking  in  her 
sleep. 

Mrs.  Crayford  looks  back  at  the  house.  Sad 
experience  makes  her  suspicious  of  the  servants' 
curiosity.  Sad  experience  has  long  since  warned 
her  that  the  servants  are  not  to  be  trusted  within 
hearing  of  the  wild  words  which  Clara  speaks  in 
the  trance.  Has  any  one  of  them  ventured  into 
the  garden?  No.  They  are  out  of  hearing  at 
the  window,  waiting  for  the  signal  which  tells 
them  that  their  help  is  needed. 

Turning  toward  Clara  once  more,  Mrs.  Cray- 
ford  hears  the  vacantly  uttered  words,  falling 
faster  and  faster  from  her  lips. 

"Frank!  Frank!  Frank!  Don't  drop  behind 
— don't  trust  Richard  Wardour.  While  you  can 
stand,  keep  with  the  other  men,  Frank!" 

(The  farewell  warning  of  Crayford  in  the  soli- 
tudes of  the  Frozen  Deep,  repeated  by  Clara  in 
the  garden  of  her  English  home!) 

A  moment  of  silence  follows;  and,  in  that  mo- 
ment, the  vision  has  changed.  She  sees  him  on 
the  iceberg  now,  at  the  mercy  of  the  bitterest 
enemy  he  has  on  earth.  She  sees  him  drifting 
— over  the  black  water,  through  the  ashy  light. 


572  WORKS     OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"Wake,  Frank!  wake  and  defend  yourself! 
Richard  Wardour  knows  that  I  love  you — Rich- 
ard AV ardour's  vengeance  will  take  your  life! 
Wake,  Frank — wake !  You  are  drifting  to  your 
death!"  A  low  groan  of  horror  burst  from  her, 
sinister  and  terrible  to  hear.  "Drifting!  drift- 
ing!" she  whispers  to  herself — "drifting  to  his 
death!" 

Her  glassy  eyes  suddenly  soften — then  close. 
A  long  shudder  runs  through  her.  A  faint  flush 
shows  itself  on  the  deadly  pallor  of  her  face,  and 
fades  again,  Her  limbs  fail  her.  She  sinks  into 
Mrs.  Crayford's  arms. 

The  servants,  answering  the  call  for  help,  carry 
her  into  the  house.  They  lay  her  insensible  on 
her  bed.  After  half  an  hour  or  more,  her  eyes 
open  again — this  time  with  the  light  of  life  in 
them — open,  and  rest  languidly  on  the  friend 
sitting  by  the  bedside. 

' '  I  have  had  a  dreadful  dream, ' '  she  murmurs 
faintly.     "Am  I  ill,  Lucy?     I  feel  so  weak." 

Even  as  she  says  the  words,  sleep,  gentle,  nat- 
ural sleep,  takes  her  suddenly-,  as  it  takes  young 
children  weary  with  their  play.  Though  it  is 
all  over  now,  though  no  further  watching  is  re- 
quired, Mrs.  Crayford  still  keeps  her  place  by  the 
bedside,  too  anxious  and  too  wakeful  to  retire  to 
her  own  room. 

On  other  occasions,  she  is  accustomed  to  dis- 
miss from  her  mind  the  words  which  drop  from 
Clara  in  the  trance.  This  time  the  effort  to  dis- 
miss them  is  beyond  her  power.  The  words 
haunt  her.      Vainly  she  recalls  to  memory  all 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  573 

that  the  doctors  have  said  to  her,  in  speaking  of 
Clara  in  the  state  of  trance.  "What  she  vaguely 
dreads   for   the  lost    man   whom   she   loves    is 
mingled  in  her  mind  with  what  she  is  constantly 
reading,  of  trials,  dangers,  and  escapes  in  the 
Arctic  seas.     The  most  startling  things  that  she 
may  say  or  do  are  all  attributable  to  this  cause, 
and  may  all  be  explained  in  this  way."     So  the 
doctors  have  spoken;  and,  thus  far,  Mrs.  Cray- 
ford  has  shared  their  view.     It  is  only  to-night 
that  the   girl's   words  ring  in  her  ear,  with  a 
strange  prophetic  sound  in  them.     It  is  only  to- 
night that  she  asks  herself :  "Is  Clara  present, 
in  the  spirit,  with  our  loved  and  lost  ones  in  the 
lonely  North?      Can  mortal  vision  see  the  dead 
and  living  in  the  solitudes  of  the  Frozen  Deep?" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  night  had  passed. 

Far  and  near  the  garden  view  looked  its  gay- 
est and  brightest  in  the  light  of  the  noonday  sun. 
The  cheering  sounds  which  tell  of  life  and  ac- 
tion were  audible  all  round  the  villa.  From  the 
garden  of  the  nearest  house  rose  the  voices  of 
children  at  play.  Along  the  road  at  the  back 
sounded  the  roll  of  wheels,  as  carts  and  carriages 
passed  at  intervals.  Out  on  the  blue  sea,  the 
distant  splash  of  the  paddles,  the  distant  thump 
of  the  engines,  told  from  time  to  time  of  the  pas- 
sage of  steamers,  entering  or  leaving  the  strait 


574  WORKS    OF    WIl.KIE     COLLIlSrS. 

between  the  island  and  the  mainland.  In  the 
trees,  the  birds  sang  gayly  among  the  rustUng 
leaves.  In  the  house,  the  women-servants  were 
laughing  over  some  jest  or  story  that  cheered 
them  at  their  work.  It  was  a  lively  and  pleasant 
time — a  bright,  enjoyable  day. 

The  two  ladies  were  out  together;  resting  on  a 
garden  seat,  after  a  v^^alk  round  the  grounds. 

They  exchanged  a  few  trivial  words  relating 
to  the  beauty  of  the  day,  and  then  said  no  more. 
Possessing  the  same  consciousness  of  what  she 
had  seen  in  the  Trance  which  persons  in  general 
possess  of  what  they  have  seen  in  a  dream — be- 
lieving in  the  vision  as  a  supernatural  revelation 
— Clara's  worst  forebodings  were  now,  to  her 
mind,  realized  as  truths.  Her  last  faint  hope  of 
ever  seeing  Frank  again  was  now  at  an  end.  In- 
timate experience  of  her  told  Mrs.  Crayford  what 
was  passing  in  Clara's  mind,  and  warned  her 
that  the  attempt  to  reason  and  remonstrate  would 
be  little  better  than  a  voluntary  waste  of  words 
and  time.  The  disposition  which  she  had  her- 
self felt  on  the  previous  night,  to  attach  a  super- 
stitious importance  to  the  words  that  Clara  had 
spoken  in  the  Trance,  had  vanished  with  the  re- 
turn of  the  morning.  Rest  and  reflection  had 
quieted  her  m^ind,  and  had  restored  the  compos- 
ing influence  of  her  sober  sense.  Sympathizing 
with  Clara  in  all  besides,  she  had  no  sympathy, 
as  they  sat  together  in  the  pleasant  sunshine, 
with  Clara's  gloomy  despair  of  the  future.  She, 
who  could  still  hope,  had  nothing  to  say  to  the 
sad  companion  who  had  done  with  hope.     So  the 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  575 

quiet  minutes  succeeded  each  other,  and  the  two 
friends  sat  side  by  side  in  silence. 

An  hour  passed,  and  the  gate-bell  of  the  villa 
rang. 

They  both  started — they  both  knew  the  ring. 
It  was  the  hour  when  the  postman  brought  their 
newspapers  from  London.  In  past  days,  what 
hundreds  on  hundreds  of  times  they  had  torn  off 
the  cover  which  inclosed  the  newspaper,  and 
looked  at  the  same  column  with  the  same  weary 
mingling  of  hope  and  despair  I  There  to-day — 
as  it  was  yesterday ;  as  it  would  be,  if  they  lived, 
to-morrow — there  was  the  servant  with  Lucy's 
newspaper  and  Clara's  newspaper  in  his  hand! 
Would  both  of  them  do  again  to-day  what  both 
had  done  so  often  in  the  days  that  were  gone? 

No !  Mrs.  Crayf ord  removed  the  cover  from 
her  newspaper  as  usual.  Clara  laid  her  news- 
paper aside,  unopened,  on  the  garden  seat. 

In  silence,  Mrs.  Crayford  looked,  where  she 
always  looked,  at  the  column  devoted  to  the 
Latest  Intelligence  from  foreign  parts.  The 
instant  her  eye  fell  on  the  page  she  started  with 
a  loud  cry  of  joy.  The  newspaper  fell  from  her 
trembling  hand.  She  caught  Clara  in  her  arms. 
"Oh,  my  darling!  my  darling!  news  of  them  at 
last." 

Without  answering,  without  the  slightest 
change  in  look  or  manner,  Clara  took  the  news- 
paper from  the  ground,  and  read  the  top  line  in 
the  column,  printed  in  capital  letters : 

The  Arctic  Expedition. 

She  waited,  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Crayford. 


576  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"Can  you  bear  to  hear  it,  Lucy,"  she  asked, 
"if  I  read  it  aloud?" 

Mrs.  Crayford  was  too  agitated  to  answer  in 
words.  She  signed  impatiently  to  Clara  to  go  on. 

Clara  read  the  news  which  followed  the  head- 
ing in  capital  letters.     Thus  it  ran : 

"The  following  intelligence,  from  St.  Johns, 
Newfoundland,  has  reached  us  for  publication. 
The  whaling-vessel  Blythewood  is  reported  to 
have  met  with  the  surviving  officers  and  men  of 
the  Expedition  in  Davis  Strait.  Many  are  stated 
to  be  dead,  and  some  are  supposed  to  be  missing. 
The  list  of  the  saved,  as  collected  by  the  people 
of  the  whaler,  is  not  vouched  for  as  being  abso- 
lutely correct,  the  circumstances  having  been 
adverse  to  investigation.  The  vessel  was  j)ressed 
for  time;  and  the  members  of  the  Expedition, 
all  more  or  less  suffering  from  exhaustion,  were 
not  in  a  position  to  give  the  necessary  assistance 
to  inquiry.  Further  particulars  may  be  looked 
for  by  the  next  mail. ' ' 

The  list  of  the  survivors  followed,  beginning 
with  the  officers  in  the  order  of  their  rank.  The}^ 
both  read  the  list  together.  The  first  name  was 
Captain  Helding;  the  second  was  Lieutenant 
Crayford. 

There  the  wife's  joy  overpowered  her.  After 
a  pause,  she  put  her  arm  around  Clara's  waist, 
and  spoke  to  her. 

"Oh,  my  love!"  she  murmured,  "are  you  as 
happy  as  I  am'?  Is  Frank's  name  there  too?  The 
tears  are  in  my  eyes.  Read  for  me — I  can't  read 
for  myself." 


THE   FROZEN    DEEP.  577 

The  answer  came,  in  still,  sad  tones: 

"I  have  read  as  far  as  your  husband's  name. 
I  have  no  need  to  read  further." 

Mrs.  Crayford  dashed  the  tears  from  her  eyes 
—steadied  herself— and  looked  at  the  newspaper. 

On  the  list  of  the  survivors,  the  search  was 
vain,  Frank's  name  was  not  among  them.  On 
a  second  list,  headed  "Dead  or  Missing,"  the 
first  two  names  that  appeared  were : 

Francis  Aldersley. 

Richard  Wardour. 

In  speechless  distress  and  dismay,  Mrs.  Cray- 
ford  looked  at  Clara.  Had  she  force  enough  in 
her  feeble  health  to  sustain  the  shock  that  had 
fallen  on  her?  Yes!  she  bore  it  with  a  strange 
unnatural  resignation— she  looked,  she  spoke, 
with  the  sad  self-possession  of  despair. 

"I  was  prepared  for  it,"  she  said.  "I  saw 
them  in  the  spirit  last  night.  Richard  Wardour 
has  discovered  the  truth ;  and  Frank  has  paid 
the  penalty  with  his  life— and  I,  I  alone,  am  to 
blame."  She  shuddered,  and  put  her  hand  on 
her  heart.  "We  shall  not  be  long  parted,  Lucy. 
I  shall  go  to  him.     He  will  not  return  to  me." 

Those  words  were  spoken  with  a  calm  cer- 
tainty of  conviction  that  was  terrible  to  hear.  "I 
have  no  more  to  say,"  she  added,  after  a  mo- 
ment, and  rose  to  return  to  the  house.  Mrs. 
Crayford  caught  her  by  the  hand,  and  forced  her 
to  take  her  seat  again. 

"Don't  look  at  me,  don't  speak  to  me,  in  that 
horrible  manner!"  she  exclaimed.  "Clara!  it  is 
unworthy  of  a  reasonable  being,  it  is  doubting 


578  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

the  mercy  of  God,  to  say  what  you  have  just 
said.  Look  at  the  newspaper  again.  See!  They 
tell  you  plainly  that  their  information  is  not  to 
be  depended  on — they  warn  you  to  wait  for  fur- 
ther particulars.  The  very  words  at  the  top  of 
the  list  show  how  little  they  knew  of  the  truth. 
'Dead  or  Missing!'  On  their  own  showing,  it 
is  quite  as  likely  that  Frank  is  missing  as  that 
Frank  is  dead.  For  all  you  know,  the  next 
mail  may  bring  a  letter  from  him.  Are  you 
listening  to  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Can  you  deny  what  I  say?" 

"No." 

"  'Yes!'  'No!'  Is  that  the  way  to  answer 
me  when  I  am  so  distressed  and  so  anxious 
about  you?" 

"I  am  sorry  I  spoke  as  I  did,  Lucy.  We  look 
at  some  subjects  in  very  different  ways.  I  don't 
dispute,  dear,  that  yours  is  the  reasonable  view." 

"You  don't  dispute?"  retorted  Mrs.  Crayford, 
warmly.  ' '  No !  you  do  what  is  worse — you  be- 
lieve in  your  own  opinion ;  you  persist  in  your 
own  conclusion — with  the  newspaper  before  you! 
Do  you,  or  do  you  not,  believe  the  newsjjaper?" 

"I  believe  in  what  I  saw  last  night." 

"In  what  you  saw  last  night!  You,  an  edu- 
cated woman,  a  clever  woman,  believing  in  a 
vision  of  your  own  fancy — a  mere  dream!  I 
wonder  you  are  not  ashamed  to  acknowledge  it !" 

"Call  it  a  dream  if  you  like,  Lucy.  I  have 
had  other  dreams  at  other  times — and  I  have 
known  them  to  be  fulfilled." 


THK    FROZEN    DEEP.  579 

"Yes!"  said  Mrs.  Crayford.  "For  once  in  a 
way  they  may  have  been  fulfilled,  by  chance — 
and  you  notice  it,  and  remember  it,  and  pin 
your  faith  on  it.  Come,  Clara,  be  honest! — What 
about  the  occasions  when  the  chance  has  been 
against  you,  and  your  dreams  have  not  been  ful- 
filled? You  superstitious  people  are  all  alike. 
You  conveniently  forget  when  your  dreams  and 
your  presentiments  prove  false.  For  my  sake, 
dear,  if  not  for  your  own,"  she  continued,  in 
gentler  and  tenderer  tones,  "try  to  be  more  rea- 
sonable and  more  hopeful.  Don't  lose  your  trust 
in  the  future,  and  your  trust  in  God.  God,  who 
has  saved  my  husband,  can  save^  Frank.  While 
there  is  doubt,  there  is  hope.  Don't  imbitter  my 
happiness,  Clara!  Try  to  think  as  I  think — if 
it  is  only  to  show  that  you  love  me." 

She  put  her  arm  round  the  girl's  neck,  and 
kissed  her.  Clara  returned  the  kiss ;  Clara  an- 
swered, sadly  and  submissively, 

"I  do  love  you,  Lucy.     I  tuill  try." 

Having  answered  in  those  terms,  she  sighed 
to  herself,  and  said  no  more.  It  would  have 
been  plain,  only  too  plain,  to  far  less  observant 
eyes  than  Mrs.  Crayford's  that  no  salutary  im- 
pression had  been  produced  on  her.  She  had 
ceased  to  defend  her  own  way  of  thinking,  she 
spoke  of  it  no  more — but  there  was  the  terrible 
conviction  of  Frank's  death  at  "Wardour's  hands 
rooted  as  firmly  as  ever  in  her  mind !  Discour- 
aged and  distressed,  Mrs.  Crayford  left  her,  and 
walked  back  toward  the  house. 


580  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

At  the  drawing-room  window  of  the  villa  there 
appeared  a  polite  little  man,  with  bright  intelli- 
gent eyes,  and  cheerful  sociable  manners.  Neatly 
dressed  in  professional  black,  he  stood,  self -pro- 
claimed, a  prosperous  country  doctor — successful 
and  popular  in  a  wide  circle  of  patients  and 
friends.  As  Mrs.  Crayford  approached  him,  he 
stepped  out  briskly  to  meet  her  on  the  lawn,  with 
both  hands  extended  in  courteous  and  cordial 
greeting. 

"My  dear  madam,  accept  my  heartfelt  con- 
gratulations!" cried  the  doctor.  "I  have  seen 
the  good  news  in  the  paper;  and  I  could  hardly 
feel  more  rejoiced  than  I  do  now  if  I  had  the 
honor  of  knowing  Lieutenant  Crayford  personal- 
ly. We  mean  to  celebrate  the  occasion  at  home. 
I  said  to  my  wife  before  I  came  out,  'A  bottle  of 
the  old  Madeira  at  dinner  to-day,  mind! — to 
drink  the  lieutenant's  health;  God  bless  him!' 
And  how  is  our  interesting  patient?  The  news 
is  not  altogether  what  we  could  wish,  so  far  as 
she  is  concerned.  I  felt  a  little  anxious,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  about  the  effect  of  it ;  and  I  have 
paid  my  visit  to-day  before  my  usual  time.  Not 
that  I  take  a  gloomy  view  of  the  news  myself. 
No !  There  is  clearly  a  doubt  about  the  correct- 
ness of  the  information,  so  far  as  Mr.  Aldersley 
is  concerned — and  that  is  a  point,  a  great  point 
in  Mr.  Aldersley's  favor.    I  give  him  the  benefit 


THBl    FROZEN    DEEP.  581 

of  the  doubt,  as  the  lawyers  say.  Does  Miss 
Burnham  give  him  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  too? 
1  hardly  dare  hope  it,  I  confess." 

"Miss  Burnham  has  grieved  and  alarmed  me," 
Mrs.  Crayford  answered.  "I  was  just  thinking 
of  sending  for  j^ou  when  we  met  here," 

With  those  introductory  words,  she  told  the 
doctor  exactly  what  had  happened;  repeating 
not  only  the  conversation  of  that  morning  be- 
tween Clara  and  herself,  but  also  the  words 
which  had  fallen  from  Clara,  in  the  trance  of 
the  past  night. 

The  doctor  listened  attentively.  Little  by  little 
its  easy  smiling  composure  vanished  from  his 
face,  as  Mrs.  Crayford  went  on,  and  left  him 
completely  transformed  into  a  grave  and  thought- 
ful man. 

"Let  us  go  and  look  at  her,"  he  said. 

He  seated  himself  by  Clara's  side,  and  care- 
fully studied  her  face,  with  his  hand  on  her 
pulse.  There  was  no  sympathj^  here  between 
the  dreamy  mystical  temperament  of  the  patient 
and  the  downright  practical  character  of  the 
doctor.  Clara  secretly  disliked  her  medical  at- 
tendant. She  submitted  impatiently  to  the  close 
investigation  of  which  he  made  her  the  object. 
He  questioned  her — and  she  answered  irritably. 
Advancing  a  step  further  (the  doctor  was  not 
easily  discouraged)  he  adverted  to  the  news  of 
the  Expedition,  and  took  up  the  tone  of  remon- 
strance which  had  been  already  adopted  by  Mrs. 
Crayford.  Clara  declined  to  discuss  the  question. 
She  rose  with  formal  politeness,  and  requested 


582  WORKS   OF    Vv'^II.KIR   COLLINS. 

permission  to  return  to  the  house.  The  doctor 
attempted  no  further  resistance.  "By  all  means, 
Miss  Burnham,"  he  answered,  resignedly — hav- 
ing first  cast  a  look  at  Mrs.  Crayford  which  said 
plainly,  "Stay  here  with  me.'"  Clara  bowed  her 
acknowledgments  in  cold  silence,  and  left  them 
together.  The  doctor's  bright  eyes  followed  the 
girl's  wasted,  yet  still  graceful  figure  as  it  slowly 
receded  from  view,  with  an  expression  of  grave 
anxiety  which  Mrs.  Crayford  noticed  with  grave 
misgiving  on  her  side.  He  said  nothing,  until 
Clara  had  disappeared  under  the  veranda  which 
ran  round  the  garden-side  of  the  house. 

"I  think  you  told  me,"  he  began,  "that  Miss 
Burnham  has  neither  father  nor  mother  living?" 

"Yes.     Miss  Burnham  is  an  orphan." 

"Has  she  any  near  relatives?" 

"No.  You  may  speak  to  me  as  her  guardian 
and  her  friend.     Are  you  alarmed  about  her?" 

"I  am  seriously  alarmed.  It  is  only  two  da5'"s 
since  I  called  here  last,  and  I  see  a  marked 
change  in  her  for  the  worse — physicallj^  and 
morally,  a  change  for  the  worse.  Don't  need- 
lessly alarm  yourself !  The  case  is  not,  I  trust, 
entirely  beyond  the  reach  of  remedy.  The  great 
hope  for  us  is  the  hope  that  Mr.  Aldersley  may 
still  be  living.  In  that  event,  I  should  feel  no 
misgivings  about  the  future.  Her  marriage  would 
make  a  healthy  and  a  happy  woman  of  her.  But 
as  things  are,  I  own  I  dread  that  settled  convic- 
tion in  her  mind  that  Mr.  Aldersley  is  dead,  and 
that  her  own  death  is  soon  to  follow.  In  her 
present  state  of  health  this  idea  (haunting  her 


THK    imoZKX    DRKP.  583 

as  it  certainly  will  iiiglit  Mnd  day)  will  have  its 
inlluence  ou  her  body  as  well  as  on  her  mind. 
Unless  we  can  check  the  mischief,  her  last  re- 
serves of  strength  will  give  way.  If  you  wish 
for  other  advice,  by  all  means  send  for  it.  You 
have  my  opinion." 

' '  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  your  opinion, ' '  Mrs. 
Crayford  replied.  "For  God's  sake,  tell  me,  what 
can  we  do?" 

"We  can  try  a  complete  change,"  said  the 
doctor.  "We  can  remove  her  at  once  from  this 
place." 

"She  will  refuse  to  leave  it,"  Mrs,  Crayford 
rejoined.  "I  have  more  than  once  proposed  a 
change  to  her — and  she  always  says  No." 

The  doctor  paused  for  a  moment,  like  a  man 
collecting  his  thoughts. 

"I  heard  something  on  my  way  here,"  he  pro- 
ceeded, "which  suggests  to  my  mind  a  method 
of  meeting  the  difficulty  that  you  have  just  men- 
tioned. Unless  I  am  entirely  mistaken,  Miss 
Burnham  will  not  say  No  to  the  change  that  I 
have  in  view  for  her." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Crayford,  eagerly. 

"Pardon  me  if  I  ask  you  a  question,  on  my 
part,  before  I  reply,"  said  the  doctor.  "Are  you 
fortunate  enough  to  possess  any  interest  at  the 
Admiralty?" 

"Certainly.  My  father  is  in  the  Secretary's 
office;  and  two  of  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty 
are  friends  of  his." 

"Excellent!  Now  I  can  speak  out  plainly 
with  little  fear  of  disappointing  you.  After  what 


584  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

I  have  said,  you  will  agree  with  me,  that  the 
only  change  in  Miss  Burnham's  life  which  will 
he  of  any  use  to  her  is  a  change  that  will  alter 
the  present  tone  of  her  mind  on  the  subject  of 
Mr.  Aldersley.  Place  her  in  a  position  to  dis- 
cover— not  by  reference  to  her  own  distempered 
fancies  and  visions,  but  by  reference  to  actual 
evidence  and  actual  fact — whether  Mr.  Aldersley 
is,  or  is  not,  a  living  man ;  and  there  will  be  an 
end  of  the  hysterical  delusions  which  now  threat- 
en to  fatally  undermine  her  heSalth.  Even  tak- 
ing matters  at  their  worst — even  assuming  that 
Mr.  Aldersley  has  died  in  the  Arctic  seas— it 
will  be  less  injurious  to  her  to  discover  this  pos- 
itively, than  to  leave  her  mind  to  feed  on  its  own 
morbid  superstitions  and  siseculations,  for  weeks 
and  weeks  together,  while  the  next  news  from 
the  Expedition  is  on  its  way  to  England.  In 
one  word,  I  want  you  to  be  in  a  position,  before 
the  week  is  out,  to  put  Miss  Burnham's  present 
conviction  to  a  practical  test.  Suppose  you  could 
say  to  her,  'We  differ,  my  dear,  about  Mr. 
Francis  Aldersley.  You  declare,  without  the 
shadow  of  a  reason  for  it,  that  he  is  certainly 
dead,  and,  worse  still,  that  he  has  died  by  \he 
act  of  one  of  his  brother  oflQcers.  I  assert,  on  the 
authority  of  the  newspaper,  that  nothing  of  the 
sort  has  happened,  and  that  the  chances  are  all 
in  favor  of  his  being  still  a  living  man.  What 
do  you  say  to  crossing  the  Atlantic,  and  deciding 
which  of  us  is  right — you  or  I?'  Do  you  think 
Miss  Burnham  will  say  No  to  that,  Mrs.  Cray- 
ford?     If  I  know  anything  of  human  nature,  she 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  585 

will  seize  the  opportunity  as  a  means  of  convert- 
ing you  to  a  belief  in  the  Second  Sight." 

"Good  Heavens,  doctor!  do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  we  are  to  go  to  sea  and  meet  the  Arctic 
Expedition  on  its  way  home?" 

"Admirably  guessed,  Mrs.  Crayford!  That 
is  exactly  what  I  mean." 

"But  how  is  it  to  be  done?" 

"I  will  tell  you  immediately.  I  mentioned — 
didn't  I? — that  I  had  heard  something  on  my 
road  to  this  house;" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  met  an  old  friend  at  my  own  gate, 
who  walked  with  me  a  part  of  the  way  here. 
Last  night  my  friend  dined  with  the  admiral  at 
Portsmouth.  Among  the  guests  there  was  a 
member  of  the  Ministry  who  had  brought  the 
news  about  the  Expedition  with  him  from  Lon- 
don. This  gentleman  told  the  company  there 
was  very  little  doubt  that  the  Admiralty  would 
immediately  send  out  a  steam- vessel,  to  meet  the 
rescued  men  on  the  shores  of  America,  and  bring 
them  home.  Wait  a  little,  Mrs.  Crayford !  No- 
body kn'ows,  as  yet,  under  what  rules  and  regu- 
lations the  vessel  will  sail.  Under  somewhat 
similar  circumstances,  privileged  people  have 
been  received  as  passengers,  or  rather  as  guests, 
in  her  majesty's  ships— and  what  has  been  con- 
ceded on  former  occasions  may,  by  bare  possi- 
bility, be  conceded  now.  I  can  say  no  more.  If 
you  are  not  afraid  of  the  voyage  for  yourself,  I 
am  not  afraid  of  it  (nay,  I  am  all  in  favor  of  it 
on  medical  grounds)   for  my  patient.     What  do 


58fi  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

you  say?  Will  you  write  to  your  father,  and 
ask  him  to  try  what  his  interest  will  do  with  his 
friends  at  the  Admiralty?" 

Mrs.  Crayford  rose  excitedly  to  her  feet. 

"Write!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  will  do  better 
than  write.  The  journey  to  London  is  no  great 
matter — and  my  housekeeper  here  is  to  be  trusted 
to  take  care  of  Clara  in  my  absence.  I  will  see 
my  father  to-night !  He  shall  make  good  use  of 
his  interest  at  the  Admiralty — you  may  rely  on 
that.  Oh,  my  dear  doctor,  what  a  prospect  it  is ! 
My  husband !  Clara !  What  a  discovery  you 
have  made — what  a  treasure  you  are!  How  can 
I  thank  you?" 

"Compose  yourself,  my  dear  madam.  Don't 
make  too  sure  of  success.  We  maj^  consider 
Miss  Burnham's  objections  as  disposed  of  before- 
hand. But  suppose  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty 
say  No?" 

"In  that  case,  I  shall  be  in  London,  doctor; 
and  I  shall  go  to  them  myself.  Lords  are  only 
men ;  and  men  are  not  in  the  habit  of  saying  No 
to  me.'" 

So  they  parted. 

In  a  week  from  that  day,  her  majesty's  ship 
Amazon  sailed  for  North  America.  Certain 
privileged  persons,  specially  interested  in  the 
Arctic  voyagers,  were  permitted  to  occupy  the 
empty  state-rooms  on  board.  On  the  list  of  these 
favored  guests  of  the  ship  were  the  names  of 
two  ladies — Mrs.  Crayford  and  Miss  Burnham, 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  587 


FIFTH  SCENE.— THE  BOAT-HOUSE. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

Once  more  the  open  sea — the  sea  whose  waters 
break  on  the  shores  of  Newfoundland !  An  En- 
glish steamship  lies  at  anchor  in  the  offing.  The 
vessel  is  plainly  visible  through  the  open  door- 
v/ay  of  a  large  boat-house  on  the  shore — one  of 
the  buildings  attached  to  a  fishing-station  on  the 
coast  of  the  island. 

The  only  person  in  the  boat-house  at  this  mo- 
ment is  a  man  in  the  dress  of  a  sailor.  He  is 
seated  on  a  chest,  with  a  piece  of  cord  in  his 
hand,  looking  out  idly  at  the  sea.  On  the  rough 
carpenter's  table  near  him  lies  a  strange  object 
to  be  left  in  such  a  place — a  woman's  veil. 

What  is  the  vessel  lying  at  anchor  in  the  offing? 

The  vessel  is  the  Amazon — dispatched  from 
England  to  receive  the  surviving  officers  and 
men  of  the  Arctic  Expedition.  The  meeting  has 
been  successf  ullj^  effected,  on  the  shores  of  North 
America,  three  days  since.  But  the  homeward 
voyage  has  been  delayed  by  a  storm  which  has 
driven  the  ship  out  of  her  course.  Taking  ad- 
vantage, on  the  third  day,  of  the  first  returning 
calm,  the  commander  of  the  Amazon  has 
anchored  off  the  coast  of  Newfoundland,  and  has 
sent  ashore  to  increase  his  supplies  of  water  be- 
fore he  sails  for  England.  The  weary  passengers 


588  WORKS     OF     WILKIE    COLLINS. 

have  landed  for  a  few  hours,  to  refresh  them- 
selves after  the  discomforts  of  the  tempest. 
Among  them  are  the  two  ladies.  The  veil  left 
on  the  table  in  the  boat-house  is  Clara's  veil. 

And  who  is  the  man  sitting  on  the  chest,  with 
the  cord  in  his  hand,  looking  out  idly  at  the  sea? 
The  man  is  the  only  cheerful  person  in  the  ship's 
company.     In  other  words — John  Want. 

Still  reposing  on  the  chest,  our  friend,  who 
never  grumbles,  is  surprised  by  the  sudden  ap- 
pearance of  a  sailor  at  the  boat-house  door. 

"Look  sharp  with  your  work  there,  John 
Want!"  says  the  sailor.  "Lieutenant  Crayford 
is  just  coming  in  to  look  after  j^ou." 

With  this  warning  the  messenger  disappears 
again.  John  Want  rises  with  a  groan,  turns 
the  chest  up  on  one  end,  and  begins  to  fasten  the 
cord  round  it.  The  ship's  cook  is  not  a  man  to 
look  back  on  his  rescue  with  the  feeling  of  un- 
mitigated satisfaction  which  animates  his  com- 
panions in  trouble.  On  the  contrary,  he  is  un- 
gratefully disposed  to  regret  the  North  Pole. 

"If  I  had  only  known" — thus  runs  the  train 
of  thought  in  the  mind  of  John  Want — "if  I  had 
only  known,  before  I  was  rescued,  that  I  was  to 
be  brought  to  this  place,  I  believe  I  should  have 
preferred  staying  at  the  North  Pole.  I  was  very 
happy  keeping  up  everybody's  spirits  at  the 
North  Pole.  Taking  one  thing  with  another,  I 
think  I  must  have  been  very  comfortable  at  the 
North  Pole — if  I  had  only  known  it.  Another 
man  in  my  place  might  be  inclined  to  say  that 
this    Newfoundland    boat-house   was    rather    a 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  589 

sloppy,  slimy,  draughty,  fishy  sort  of  a  habita- 
tion to  take  shelter  in.  Another  man  might  ob- 
ject to  perpetual  Newfoundland  fogs,  perpetual 
Newfoundland  cod-fish,  and  perpetual  Newfound- 
land dogs.  We  had  some  very  nice  bears  at  the 
North  Pole.  Never  mind !  it's  all  one  to  me — 
/don't  grumble." 

"Have  you  done  cording  that  box?" 

This  time  the  voice  is  a  voice  of  authority'- — 
the  man  at  the  doorway  is  Lieutenant  Crayford 
himself.  John  "Want  answers  his  officer  in  his 
own  cheerful  way. 

"I've  done  it  as  well  as  I  can,  sir — but  the 
damp  of  this  place  is  beginning  to  tell  upon  our 
very  ropes.  I  say  nothing  about  our  lungs — I 
only  say  our  ropes." 

Crayford  answers  sharply.  He  seems  to  have 
lost  his  former  relish  for  the  humor  of  John 
Want. 

"Pooh!  To  look  at  your  wry  face,  one  would 
think  that  our  rescue  from  the  Arctic  regions 
was  a  downright  misfortune.  You  deserve  to  be 
sent  back  again. ' ' 

"I  could  be  just  as  cheerful  as  ever,  sir,  if  I 
tvas  sent  back  again.  I  hope  I'm  thankful;  but 
I  don't  like  to  hear  the  North  Pole  run  down  in 
such  a  fishy  place  as  this.  It  was  very  clean  and 
snowy  at  the  North  Pole — and  it's  very  damp 
and  sandy  here.  Do  you  never  miss  your  bone- 
soup,  sir?  J  do.  It  mightn't  have  been  strong; 
but  it  was  very  hot ;  and  the  cold  seemed  to  give 
it  a  kind  of  a  meaty  flavor  as  it  went  down.  Was 
it  you  that  was  a-coughing  so  long  last  night, 


590  WORKS     OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

sir?  I  dou't  presume  to  say  anything  against 
the  air  of  these  latitudes ;  but  I  should  be  glad  to 
know  it  wasn't  you  that  was  a-coughing  so  hol- 
low. Would  you  be  so  obliging  as  just  to  feel 
the  state  of  these  ropes  with  the  ends  of  your 
fingers,  sir?  You  can  dry  them  afterward  on  the 
back  of  my  jacket." 

"You  ought  to  have  a  stick  laid  on  the  back 
of  your  jacket.  Take  that  box  down  to  the  boat 
directly.  .  You  croaking  va,gabond !  You  would 
have  grumbled  in  the  Garden  of  Eden." 

The  philosopher  of  the  Expedition  was  not  a 
man  to  be  silenced  by  referring  him  to  the  Gar- 
den of  Eden.  Paradise  itself  was  not  perfect  to 
John  Want. 

"I  hope  I  could  be  cheerful  anywhere,  sir," 
said  the  ship's  cook.  "But  you  mark  my  words 
— there  must  have  been  a  deal  of  troublesome 
work  with  the  flower-beds  in  the  Garden  of 
Eden." 

Having  entered  that  unanswerable  protest, 
John  Want  shouldered  the  box,  and  drifted 
drearily  out  of  the  boat-house. 

Left  by  himself,  Crayford  looked  at  his  watch, 
and  called  to  a  sailor  outside. 

"Where  are  the  ladies?"  he  asked. 

"Mrs.  Crayford  is  coming  this  way,  sir.  She 
was  just  behind  you  when  you  came  in." 

"Is  Miss  Buruham  with  her?" 

"No,  sir;  Miss  Burnham  is  down  on  the 
beach  with  the  passengers.  I  heard  the  young 
lady  asking  after  you,  sir." 

"Asking    after    me?"      Craj^ford   considered 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  591 

with  himself  as  he  repeated  the  words.  He 
added,  in  lower  and  graver  tones,  "You  had  bet- 
ter tell  Miss  Burnham  you  have  seen  me  here." 

The  man  made  his  salute  and  went  out.  Cray- 
ford  took  a  turn  in  the  boat-house. 

Rescued  from  death  in  the  Arctic  wastes,  and 
reunited  to  a  beautiful  wife,  the  lieutenant 
looked,  nevertheless,  unaccountably  anxious  and 
depressed.  What  could  he  be  thinking  of?  He 
was  thinking  of  Clara. 

On  the  first  day  when  the  rescued  men  were 
received  on  board  the  Amazon,  Clara  had  em- 
barrassed and  distressed,  not  Crayford  only,  but 
the  other  officers  of  the  Expedition  as  well,  by 
the  manner  in  which  she  questioned  them  on  the 
subject  of  Francis  Aldersley  and  Richard  War- 
dour.  She  had  shown  no  signs  of  dismay  or  de- 
spair when  she  heard  that  no  news  had  been  re- 
ceived of  the  two  missing  men.  She  had  even 
smiled  sadly  to  herself,  when  Crayford  (out  of 
compassionate  regard  for  her)  declared  that  he 
and  his  comrades  had  not  given  up  the  hope  of 
seeing  Frank  and  Wardour  yet.  It  was  only 
when  the  lieutenant  had  expressed  himself  in 
those  terms — and  when  it  was  hoped  that  the 
painful  subject  had  been  dismissed — that  Clara 
had  startled  every  one  present  by  announcing 
that  she  had  something  still  to  say  in  relation  to 
Frank  and  Wardour,  which,  had  not  been  said 
yet.  Though  she  spoke  guardedlj^,  her  next 
words  revealed  suspicions  of  foul  play  lurking  in 
her  mind — exactl}'-  reflecting  similar  suspicions 
lurking  in  Craj'ford's  mind— which  so  distressed 


593  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

the  lieutenant,  and  so  surprised  his  comrades,  as 
to  render  them  quite  incapable  of  answering  her. 
The  warnings  of  the  storm  which  shortly  after- 
ward broke  over  the  vessel  were  then  visible  in 
sea  and  sky.  Crayford  made  them  his  excuse 
for  abruptly  leaving  the  cabin  in  which  the  con- 
versation had  taken  place.  His  brother  officers, 
profiting  by  his  example,  pleaded  their  duties  on 
deck,  and  followed  him  out. 

On  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  the  tempest 
still  raged — and  the  passengers  were  not  able 
to  leave  their  state-rooms.  But  now,  when  the 
weather  had  moderated  and  the  ship  had  an- 
chored— now,  when  officers  and  passengers  alike 
were  on  shore,  with  leisure  time  at  their  disposal 
— Clara  had  opportunities  of  returning  to  the 
subject  of  the  lost  men,  and  of  asking  questions 
in  relation  to  them  which  would  make  it  impos- 
sible for  Crayford  to  plead  an  excuse  for  not  an- 
swering her.  How  was  he  to  meet  those  ques- 
tions? How  could  he  still  keep  her  in  ignorance 
of  the  truth? 

These  were  the  reflections  which  now  troubled 
Crayford,  and  which  presented  him,  after  his 
rescue,  in  the  strangely  inappropriate  character 
of  a  depressed  and  anxious  man.  His  brother 
officers,  as  he  well  knew,  looked  to  him  to  take 
the  chief  responsibility.  If  he  declined  to  accept 
it,  he  would  instantly  confirm  the  horrible  sus- 
picion in  Clara's  mind.  The  emergency  must  be 
met;  but  how  to  meet  it — at  once  honorably  and 
mercifully — was  more  than  Crayford  could  tell. 
He  was  still  lost  in  his  own  gloomy  thoughts 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  598 

when  his  wife  entered  the  boat-house.  Turning 
to  look  at  her,  he  saw  his  own  jjerturbations  and 
anxieties  plainly  reflected  in  Mrs.  Crayford's  face, 

"Have  you  seen  anj'thing  of  Clara?"  he  asked. 
"Is  she  still  on  the  beach?" 

"She  is  following  me  to  this  place,"  Mrs. 
Crayford  replied.  "I  have  been  speaking  to  her 
this  morning.  She  is  just  as  resolute  as  ever  to 
insist  on  your  telling  her  of  the  circumstances 
under  which  Frank  is  missing.  As  things  are, 
you  have  no  alternative  but  to  answer  her." 

"Help  me  to  answer  her,  Lucy.  Tell  me,  be- 
fore she  comes  in,  how  this  dreadful  suspicion 
first  took  possession  of  her.  All  she  could  pos- 
sibly have  known  when  we  left  England  was 
that  the  two  men  were  appointed  to  separate 
ships.  What  could  have  led  her  to  supsect  that 
they  had  come  together?" 

"She  was  firmly  persuaded,  William,  that 
they  ivould  come  together  when  the  Expedition 
left  England.  And  she  had  read  in  books  of 
Arctic  travel,  of  men  left  behind  by  their  com- 
rades on  the  march,  and  of  men  adrift  on  ice- 
bergs. With  her  mind  full  of  these  images  and 
forebodings,  she  saw  Frank  and  Wardour  (or 
dreamed  of  them)  in  one  of  her  attacks  of  trance. 
I  was  by  her  side;  I  heard  what  she  said  at  the 
time.  She  warned  Frank  that  Wardour  had  dis- 
covered the  truth.  She  called  out  to  him,  '  While 
you  can  stand,  keep  with  the  other  men,  Frank !'  " 

"Good  God!"  cried  Crayford;  "I  warned  him 
myself,  almost  in  those  very  words,  the  last  time 
I  saw  him!" 


594  WORKS     OF    WIT.KIR     rOLLINS. 

"Don't  acknowledge  it,  William!  Keep  her 
ia  ignorance  of  what  you  have  just  told  me.  She 
will  not  take  it  for  Avhat  it  is — a  startling  coin- 
cidence, and  nothing  more:  She  will  accept  it 
as  positive  confirmation  of  the  faith,  the  misera- 
ble superstitious  faith,  that  is  in  her.  So  long- 
as  you  don't  actuallj"  know  that  Frank  is  dead, 
and  that  he  has  died  by  Wardour's  hand,  deny 
what  she  says — mislead  her  for  her  own  sake — 
dispute  all  her  conclusions  as  I  dispute  them. 
Help  me  to  raise  her  to  the  better  and  nobler 
belief  in  the  mercy  of  God!"  She  stopped,  and 
looked  round  nervously  at  the  doorway.  ' '  Hush !" 
she  whispered.  "Do  as  I  have  told  you.  Clara 
is  here." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Clara  stopped  at  the  doorway,  looking  back- 
ward and  forward  distrustfully  between  the  hus- 
band and  wife.  Entering  the  bjat-house,  and 
approaching  Crayford,  she  took  his  arm,  and  led 
him  away  a  few  steps  from  the  place  in  which 
Mrs.  Crayford  was  standing. 

"There  is  no  storm  now,  and  there  are  no 
duties  to  be  done  on  board  the  ship,"  she  said, 
with  the  faint,  sad  smile  which  it  wrung  Cray- 
ford's  heart  to  see.  "You  are  Lucy's  husband, 
and  you  have  an  interest  in  me  for  Lucy's  sake. 
Don't  shrink  on  that  account  from  giving  me 
pain:  I  can  bear  pain.  Friend  and  brother!  will 
you  believe  that  I  have  courage  enough  to  hear 


THK    KHOZKN    DEEP.  595 

the  worst?  Will  you  promise  not  to  deceive  me 
about  Frank?" 

The  gentle  resignation  in  her  voice,  the  sad 
pleading  in  her  look,  shook  Crayford's  self-pos- 
session at  the  outset.  He  answered  her  in  the 
worst  possible  manner;  he  answered  evasively. 

"My  dear  Clara,"  he  said,  "what  have  I  done 
that  you  should  suspect  me  of  deceiving  you?" 

She  looked  him  searchingly  in  the  face,  then 
glanced  with  renewed  distrust  at  Mrs.  Crayford. 
There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  Before  any  of 
the  three  could  speak  again,  they  were  inter- 
rupted by  the  appearance  of  one  of  Crayford's 
brother  officers,  followed  by  two  sailors  carrying 
a  hamper  between  them.  Crayford  instantly 
dropped  Clara's  arm,  and  seized  the  welcome 
opportunity  of  speaking  of  other  things. 

"Any  instructions  from  the  ship,  Steventon?" 
he  asked,  approaching  the  officer. 

* '  Verbal  instructions  only, ' '  Steventon  replied. 
"The  ship  will  sail  with  the  flood-tide.  We  shall 
fire  a  gun  to  collect  the  people,  and  send  another 
boat  ashore.  In  the  meantime  here  are  some 
refreshments  for  the  passengers.  The  ship  is  in 
a  state  of  confusion;  the  ladies  will  eat  their 
luncheon  more  comfortably  here." 

Hearing  this,  Mrs.  Crayford  took  her  oppor- 
tunity of  silencing  Clara  next. 

"Come,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "Let  us  lay  the 
cloth  before  the  gentlemen  come  in." 

Clara  was  too  seriously  bent  on  attaining  the 
object  which  she  had  in  view  to  be  silenced  in 
that  way.     "I  will  help  you  directly, "  she  an- 


596  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

swered — then  crossed  the  room  and'  addressed 
herself  to  the  officer,  whose  name  was  Steventon. 

"Can  you  spare  me  a  few  minutes?"  she 
asked.     "I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

' '  I  am  entirely  at  your  service,  Miss  Burnham. ' ' 

Answering  in  those  words,  Steventon  dis- 
missed the  two  sailors.  Mrs.  Crayford  looked 
anxiously  at  her  husband.  Crayford  whispered 
to  her,  "Don't  be  alarmed  about  Steventon.  I 
have  cautioned  him ;  his  discretion  is  to  be  de- 
pended on." 

Clara  beckoned  to  Crayford  to  return  to  her, 

"I  will  not  keep  you  long,"  she  said.  "I  will 
promise  not  to  distress  Mr.  Steventon.  Young  as 
I  am,  you  shall  both  find  that  I  am  capable  of  self- 
control.  I  won't  ask  you  to  go  back  to  the  story 
of  your  past  sufferings;  I  onl)'-  want  to  be  sure 
that  I  am  right  about  one  thing — I  mean  about 
what  happened  at  the  time  when  the  exploring 
party  was  dispatched  in  search  of  help.  As  I 
understand  it,  you  cast  lots  among  yourselves 
who  was  to  go  with  the  party,  and  who  was  to 
remain  behind.  Frank  cast  the  lot  to  go,"  She 
paused,  shuddering.  "And  Richard  Wardour, " 
she  went  on,  "cast  the  lot  to  remain  behind.  On 
your  honor,  as  officers  and  gentlemen,  is  this  the 
truth?" 

"On  my  honor,"  Crayford  answered,  "it  is 
the  truth." 

"On  my  honor,"  Steventon  repeated,  "it  is 
the  truth." 

She  looked  at  them,  carefully  considering  her 
next  words,  before  she  spoke  again. 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  59T 

"You  both  drew  the  lot  to  stay  in  the  huts," 
she  said,  addressing  Crayford  and  Steventon. 
"And  you  are  both  here.  Richard  Wardour 
drevv  the  lot  to  stay,  and  Richard  Wardour  is 
not  here.  How  does  his  name  come  to  be  with 
Frank's  on  the  list  of  the  missing?" 

The  question  was  a  dangerous  one  to  answer. 
Steventon  left  it  to  Crayford  to  reply.  Once 
again  he  answered  evasiv^ely.  . 

"It  doesn't  follow,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "that 
the  two  men  were  missing  together  because 
their  names  happen  to  come  together  on  the 
list." 

Clara  instantlj^  drew  the  inevitable  conclusion 
from  that  ill-considered  reply. 

"Frank  is  missing  from  the  party  of  relief," 
she  said.  "Am  I  to  understand  that  Wardour 
is  missing  from  the  huts?" 

Both  Crayford  and  Steventon  hesitated.  Mrs. 
Crayford  cast  one  indignant  look  at  them,  and 
told  the  necessary  lie,  without  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation ! 

"Yes!"  she  said.  "Wardour is  missing  from 
the  huts." 

Quickly  as  she  had  spoken,  she  had  still  spoken 
too  late.  Clara  had  noticed  the  momentary  hesi- 
tation on  the  part  of  the  two  officers,  She  turned 
to  Steventon, 

"I  trust  to  your  honor,"  she  said,  quietly. 
"Am  I  right,  or  wrong,  in  believing  that  Mrs. 
Crayford  is  mistaken?" 

She  had  addressed  herself  to  the  right  man  of 
the  two.     Steventon  had  no  wife  present  to  ex- 


598  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLONS. 

ercise  authority  over  him.  Steventon,  put  on 
his  honor,  and  fairly  forced  to  say  something, 
owned  the  truth.  Wardour  had  replaced  an 
officer  whom  accident  had  disabled  from  accom- 
panying the  party  of  relief,  and  Wardour  and 
Frank  were  missing  together. 

Clara  looked  at  Mrs.  Crayford. 

"You  hear?"  she  said.  "It  is  you  who  are 
mistaken,  not  I.  What  you  call  'Accident,' 
what  I  call  'Fate,'  brought  Richard  Wardour 
and  Frank  together  as  members  of  the  same 
Expedition,  after  all."  Without  waiting  for 
a  reply,  she  again  turned  to  Steventon,  and 
surprised  him  by  changing  the  painful  subject 
of  the  conversation  of  her  own  accord. 

"Have  you  been  in  the  Highlands  of  Scot- 
land?" she  asked. 

"I  have  never  been  in  the  Highlands,"  the 
lieutenant  replied. 

"Have  you  ever  read,  in  books  about  the 
Highlands,  of  such  a  thing  as  'The  Second 
Sight'?" 

"Yes." 

"Do  you  believe  in  the  Second  Sight?" 

Steventon  politely  declined  to  commit  himself 
to  a  direct  reply. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  might  have  done,  if  I 
had  ever  been  in  the  Highlands,"  he  said.  "As 
it  is,  I  have  had  no  opportunities  of  giving  the 
subject  any  serious  consideration." 

"I  won't  put  your  credulity  to  the  test,"  Clara 
proceeded.  "I  won't  ask  you  to  believe  any- 
thing  more   extraordinary   than   that   I   had  a 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  599 

strange  dream  in  England  not  very  long  since. 
My  dream  showed  me  what  you  have  just  ac- 
knowledged— and  more  than  that.  How  did  the 
two  missing  men  come  to  be  parted  from  their 
companions?  Were  they  lost  by  pure  accident, 
or  were  they  deliberately  left  behind  on  the 
march?" 

Crayford  made  a  last  vain  effort  to  check  her 
inquiries  at  the  point  which  they  had  now 
reached. 

"Neither  Steventon  nor  I  were  members  of 
the  party  of  relief,"  he  said.  "How  are  we  to 
answer  you?" 

"Your  brother  oflficers  who  ivere  members  of 
the  party  must  have  told  you  what  happened," 
Clara  rejoined.  "I  only  ask  you  and  Mr.  Stev- 
enton to  tell  me  what  they  told  you." 

Mrs.  Crayford  interposed  again,  with  a  prac- 
tical suggestion  this  time. 

"The  luncheon  is  not  unpacked  yet,"  she  said. 
"Come,  Clara!  this  is  our  business,  and  the  time 
is  passing." 

"The  luncheon  can  wait  a  few  minutes 
longer,"  Clara  answered.  "Bear  with  my  ob- 
stinacy," she  went  on,  laying  her  hand  caress- 
ingly on  Crayford's  shoulder.  "Tell  me  how 
those  two  came  to  be  separated  from  the  rest. 
You  have  always  been  the  kindest  of  friends — 
don't  begin  to  be  cruel  to  me  now!" 

The  tone  in  which  she  made  her  entreaty  to 
Crayford  went  straight  to  the  sailor's  heart.    He 
gave  up  the  hopeless  struggle :  he  let  her  see  a 
glimpse  of  the  truth. 
\^ol.  4  20^ 


600  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

"On  the  third  day  out,"  he  said,  "Frank's 
strength  failed  him.  He  fell  behind  the  rest  from 
fatigue." 

"Surely  they  waited  for  him?" 

"It  was  a  serious  risk  to  wait  for  him,  my 
child.  Their  lives  (and  the  lives  of  the  men 
they  had  left  in  the  huts)  depended,  in  that 
dreadful  climate,  on  their  pushing  on.  But 
Frank  was  a  favorite.  They  waited  half  a  day 
to  give  Frank  the  chance  of  recovering  his 
strength." 

There  he  stopped.  There  the  imprudence  into 
which  his  fondness  for  Clara  had  led  him  showed 
itself  plainly,  and  closed  his  lips. 

It  was  too  late  to  take  refuge  in  silence.  Clara 
was  determined  on  hearing  more. 

She  questioned  Steventon  next. 

"Did  Frank  go  on  again  after  the  half -day's 
rest?"  she  asked. 

"He  tried  to  go  on — " 

"And  failed?" 

"Yes." 

"What  did  the  men  do  when  he  failed?  Did 
they  turn  cowards?     Did  they  desert  Frank?" 

She  had  purposely  used  language  which  might 
irritate  Steventon  into  answering  her  plainl}^. 
He  was  a  young  man — he  fell  into  the  snare 
that  she  had  set  for  him. 

"Not  one  among  them  was  a  coward,  Miss 
Burnham!"  he  replied,  warmly.  "You  are 
speaking  cruelly  and  unjustly  of  as  brave  a  set 
of  fellows  as  ever  lived!  The  strongest  man 
among  them  set  the  example;  he  volunteered  to 


THK    FROZEN    DEEP.  (JOl 

stay  b}"-  Frank,  uikI  to  bring  him  on  in  the  track 
of  the  exploring  party." 

There  Steventon  stopped — conscious,  on  his 
side,  that  he  had  said  too  much.  Would  she  ask 
him  who  this  volunteer  was?  No.  She  went 
straight  on  to  the  most  embarrassing  question 
that  she  had  put  yet — referring  to  the  volunteer, 
as  if  Steventon  had  already  mentioned  his  name. 

"What  made  Richard  Wardour  so  ready  to 
risk  his  life  for  Frank's  sake?"  she  said  to 
Crayford.  "Did  he  do  it  out  of  friendship  for 
Frank?  Surely  you  can  tell  me  that?  Carry 
your  memory  back  to  the  days  when  you  were 
all  living  in  the  huts.  Were  Frank  and  War- 
dour  friends  at  that  time?  Did  you  never  hear 
any  angry  words  pass  between  them?" 

There  Mrs.  Crayford  saw  her  opportunity  of 
giving  her  husband  a  timely  hint. 

"My  dear  child!"  she  said;  "how  can  you  ex- 
pect him  to  remember  that?  There  must  have 
been  plenty  of  quarrels  among  the  men,  all  shut 
up  together,  and  all  weary  of  each  other's  com- 
pany, no  doubt." 

"Plenty  of  quarrels!"  Crayford  repeated; 
"and  every  one  of  them  made  up  again." 

"And  every  one  of  them  made  up  again," 
Mrs,  Crayford  reiterated,  in  her  turn.  "There! 
a  plainer  answer  than  that  you  can't  wish  to 
have.  Noio  are  you  satisfied?  Mr.  Steventon, 
come  and  lend  a  hand  (as  you  say  at  sea)  with 
the  hamper — Clara  won't  help  me.  William, 
don't  stand  there  doing  nothing.  This  hamper 
holds  a  great  deal ;  we  must  have  a  division  of 


602  WORKS     OF    WILKIE     COLLINS. 

labor.  Your  division  shall  be  laying  the  table- 
cloth. Don't  handle  it  in  that  clumsy  way!  You 
unfold  a  table-cloth  as  if  you  were  unfurling  a 
sail.  Put  the  knives  on  the  right,  and  the  forks 
on  the  left,  and  the  napkin  and  the  bread  be- 
tween them.  Clara,  if  you  are  not  hungry  in 
this  fine  air,  you  ought  to  be.  Come  and  do  your 
duty;  come  and  have  some  lunch!" 

She  looked  up  as  she  spoke,  Clara  appeared 
to  have  jaelded  at  last  to  the  conspiracy  to  keep 
her  in  the  dark.  She  had  returned  slowly  to  the 
boat-house  doorway,  and  she  was  standing  alone 
on  the  threshold,  looking  out.  Approaching  her 
to  lead  her  to  the  luncheon-table,  Mrs.  Crayford 
could  hear  that  she  was  speaking  softly  to  her- 
self. She  was  repeating  the  farewell  words 
which  Richard  Wardour  had  spoken  to  her  at 
the  ball. 

"  'A  time  may  come  when  I  shall  forgive  you. 
But  the  man  who  has  robbed  me  of  you  shall  rue 
the  day  when  you  and  he  first  met. '  O,  Frank ! 
Frank !  does  Richard  still  live,  with  your  blood 
on  his  conscience,  and  my  image  in  his  heart?" 

Her  lips  suddenly  closed.  She  started,  and 
drew  back  from  the  doorway,  trembling  vio- 
lenth'.  Mrs.  Crayford  looked  out  at  the  quiet 
seaward  view. 

"Anything  there  that  frightens  you,  my 
dear?"  she  asked.  "I  can  see  nothing,  except 
the  boats  drawn  up  on  the  beach." 

"Jean  see  nothing  either,  Lucy." 

"And  yet  you  are  trembling  as  if  there  was 
something  dreadful  in  the  view  from  this  door," 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  603 

"There  is  something  dreadful!  I  feel  it, 
though  I  see  nothing.  I  feel  it,  nearer  and  nearer 
in  the  empty  air,  darker  and  darker  in  the  sunny 
light.  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  Take  me  away! 
No.  Not  out  on  the  beach.  I  can't  pass  the 
door.     Somewhere  else!  somewhere  else!" 

Mrs.  Crayford  looked  round  her,  and  noticed 
a  second  door  at  the  inner  end  of  the  boat-house. 
She  spoke  to  her  husband. 

"See  where  that  door  leads  to,  William." 
Crayford  opened  the  door.  It  led  into  a  deso- 
late inclosure,  half  garden,  half  yard.  Some  nets 
stretched  on  poles  were  hanging  up  to  dry.  No 
other  objects  were  visible — not  a  living  creature 
appeared  in  the  place.  "It  doesn't  look  very 
inviting,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Crayford.  "I  am 
at  your  service,  however.  What  do  you  say?" 
She  offered  her  arm  to  Clara  as  she  spoke. 
Clara  refused  it.  She  took  Crayford's  arm,  and 
clung  to  him. 

"I'm  frightened,  dreadfully  frightened!"  she 
said  to  him,  faintlj^.  ''You  keep  with  me — a 
woman  is  no  protection ;  I  want  to  be  with  you.'" 
She  looked  round  again  at  the  boat-house  door- 
way. "Oh!"  she  whispered,  "I'm  cold  all  over 
— I'm  frozen  with'  fear  of  this  place.  Come  into 
the  yard !     Come  into  the  yard !" 

"Leave  her  tome,"  said  Crayford  to  his  wife. 
"I  will  call  you,  if  she  doesn't  get  better  in  the 
open  air." 

He  took  her  out  at  once,  and  closed  the  yard 
door  behind  them. 

"Mr.    Steventon,   do   you    understand   this?" 


604.  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

asked  Mrs.  Crayford.  "What  can  she  possibly 
be  frightened  of?" 

She  put  the  question,  still  looking  mechan- 
ically at  the  door  by  which  her  husband  and 
Clara  had  gone  out.  Receiving  no  reply,  she 
glanced  round  at  Steventon.  He  was  standing 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  luncheon-table,  with 
his  eyes  fixed  attentively  on  the  view  from  the 
main  doorway  of  the  boat-house.  Mrs.  Cray- 
ford  looked  where  Steventon  was  looking.  This 
time  there  was  something  visible.  She  saw  the 
shadow  of  a  human  figure  projected  on  the 
stretch  of  smooth  yellow  sand  in  front  of  the 
boat-house. 

In  a  moment  more  the  figure  appeared.  A 
man  came  slowly  into  view,  and  stopped  on  the 
threshold  of  the- door. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

The  man  was  a  sinister  and  terrible  object  to 
look  at.  His  eyes  glared  like  the  eyes  of  a  wild 
animal;  his  head  was  bare;  his  long  gray  hair 
was  torn  and  tangled;  his  miserable  garments 
hung  about  him  in  rags.  He  stood  in  the  door- 
waj',  a  speechless  figure  of  miserj'-  and  want, 
staring  at  the  well-spread  table  like  a  hungry 
dog. 

Steventon  spoke  to  him. 

"Who  are  you?" 

He  answered,  in  a  hoarse,  hollow  voice, 

"A  starving  man." 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP,  605 

He  advanced  a  few  steps,  slowly  and  pain- 
fully, as  if  he  were  sinking  under  fatigue. 

"Throw  me  some  bones  from  the  table,"  he 
said.  "Give  me  my  share  along  with  the  dogs." 
There  was  madness  as  well  as  hunger  in  his 
ej'-es  while  he  spoke  those  words.  Steventon 
placed  Mrs.  Crayford  behind  him,  so  that  he 
might  be  easily  able  to  protect  her  in  case  of 
need,  and  beckoned  to  two  sailors  who  were 
passing  the  door  of  the  boat-house  at  the  time. 

"Give  the   man   some   bread  and  meat,"  he 
said,  "and  wait  near  him." 

The  outcast  seized  on  the  bread  and  meat  with 
lean,  long-nailed  hands  that  looked  like  claws. 
After  his  first  mouthful  of  the  food,  he  stopped, 
considered  vacantly  with  himself,  and  broke  the 
bread  and  meat  into  two  portions.     One  portion 
he  put  into  an  old  canvas  wallet  that  hung  over 
his  shoulder;  the  other  he  devoured  voraciously. 
Steventon  questioned  him. 
"Where  do  you  come  from?" 
"From  the  sea." 
"Wrecked?" 
"Yes." 

Steventon  turned  to  Mrs.  Crayford. 
"There  may  be  some  truth  in  the  poor  wretch's 
story, ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  heard  something  of  a  strange 
boat  having  been  cast  on  the  beach  thirty  or  forty 
miles  higher  up  the  coast.  When  were  you 
wrecked,  my  man?" 

The  starving  creature  looked  up  from  his  food, 
and  made  an  effort  to  collect  his  thoughts — to 
exert  his  memory.     It  was  not  to  be  done.     He 


(jUG  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

gave  up  the  attempt  in  despair.  His  lan- 
guage, when  he  spoke,  was  as  wild  as  his 
looks. 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  he  said.  "I  can't  get  the 
wash  of  the  sea  out  of  my  ears.  I  can't  get  the 
shining  stars  all  night,  and  the  burning  sun  all 
day,  out  of  my  brain.  When  was  I  wrecked? 
When  was  I  first  adrift  in  the  boat?  When  did 
I  get  the  tiller  in  my  hand  and  fight  against 
hunger  and  sleep?  When  did  the  gnawing  in 
my  breast,  and  the  burning  in  my  head,  first  be- 
gin? I  have  lost  all  reckoning  of  it.  I  can't 
think;  I  can't  sleep;  I  can't  get  the  wash  of  the 
sea  out  of  my  ears.  What  are  you  baiting  me 
with  questions  for?     Let  me  eat!" 

Even  the  sailors  pitied  him.  The  sailors  asked 
leave  of  their  officer  to  add  a  little  drink  to  his 
meal. 

"We've  got  a  drop  of  grog  with  us,  sir,  in  a 
bottle.     May  we  give  it  to  him?" 

"Certainly!" 

He  took  the  bottle  fiercely,  as  he  had  taken 
the  food,  drank  a  little,  stopped,  and  considered 
with  himself  again.  He  held  up  the  bottle  to 
the  light,  and,  marking  how  much  liquor  it  con- 
tained, carefully  drank  half  of  it  only.  This 
done,  he  put  the  bottle  in  his  wallet  along  with 
the  food. 

"Are  you  saving  it  up  for  another  time?" 
said  Steventon. 

"I'm  saving  it  up,"  the  man  answered. 
"Never  mind  what  for.     That's  my  secret." 

He  looked  round  the  boat-house  as  he  made 


THE   FROZEN   DEEP.  Hi)] 

that  repl}^,  and  noticed  Mrs.  Crayford  for  the 
first  time. 

"A  woman  among  you!"  he  said.  "Is  she 
English?  Is  she  young?  Let  me  look  closer  at 
her." 

He  advanced  a  few  steps  toward  the  table. 
"Don't  be  afraid,  Mrs.  Crayford,"  said  Stev- 
enton. 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  Mrs.  Crayford  replied. 
"He  frightened  me  at  first — he  interests  me  now. 
Let  him  speak  to  me  if  he  wishes  it!" 

He  never  spoke.  He  stood,  in  dead  silence, 
looking  long  and  anxiously  at  the  beautiful  En- 
glishwoman. 

"Well?"  said  Steventon. 

He  shook  his  head  sadly,  and  drew  back  again 
with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"No !"  he  said  to  himself,  "that's  not  her  face. 
No !  not  found  yet. ' ' 

Mrs.  Crayford's  interest  was  strongly  excited. 
She  ventured  to  speak  to  him. 

"Who  is  it  you  want  to  find?"  she  asked. 
"Your  wife?" 

He  shook  his  head  again. 
"Who,  then?     What  is  she  like?" 
He  answered  that  question  in  words.      His 
hoarse,  hollow  voice  softened,  little  by  little,  into 
sorrowful  and  gentle  tones. 

"Young,"  he  said;  "with  a  fair,  sad  face— 
with  kind,  tender  eyes— with  a  soft,  clear  voice. 
Young  and  loving  and  merciful.  I  keep  her 
face  in  my  mind,  though  I  can  keep  nothing  else. 
I  must  wander,  wander,  wander — restless,  sleep- 


608  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

less,  homeless — till  I  find  her  !  Over  the  ice  and 
over  the  snow ;  tossing  on  the  sea,  tramping  over 
the  land ;  awake  all  night,  awake  all  ^a.j ;  wan- 
der-, wander,  waader,  till  I  find  her  T' 

He  waved  his  hand  with  a  gesture  of  farewell, 
and  turned  wearily  to  go  out. 

At  the  same  moment  Crayford  opened  the  yard 
door. 

"I  think  you  had  better  come  to  Clara,"  he 
began,  and  checked  himself,  noticing  the  stran- 
ger.    "Who  is  that?" 

The  shipwrecked  man,  hearing  another  voice 
in  the  room,  looked  round  slowly  over  his  shoul- 
der. Struck  by  his  appearance,  Crayford  ad- 
vanced a  little  nearer  to  him.  Mrs.  Crayford 
spoke  to  her  husband  as  he  passed  her. 

"It's  only  a  poor,  mad  creature,  William,"  she 
whispered — "shipwrecked  and  starving." 

"Mad?"  Crayford  repeated,  approaching 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  man.  "Am  Jinmj^ 
right  senses?"  He  suddenly  sprang  on  the  out- 
cast, and  seized  him  by  the  throat.  "Richard 
Wardour!"  he. cried,  in  a  voice  of  fury.  "Alive! 
— alive,  to  answer  for  Frank!" 

The  man  struggled.     Crayford  held  him. 

"Where  is  Frank?"  he  said.  "You  villain, 
where  is  Frank?" 

The  man  resisted  no  longer.  He  repeated  va- 
cantly, 

"Villain?  and  where  is  Frank?" 

As  the  name  escaped  his  lips,  Clara  appeared 
at  the  open  yard  door,  and  hurried  into  the 
room. 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  609 

"I  heard  Richard's  name!"  she  said.  "I 
heard  Frank's  name!     What  does  it  mean?" 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  the  outcast  renewed 
the  struggle  to  free  himself,  with  a  sudden  frenzy 
of  strength  which  Crayford  was  not  able  to  re- 
sist. He  broke  away  before  the  sailors  could 
come  to  their  officer's  assistance.  Half-way  down 
the  length  of  the  room  he  and  Clara  met  one 
another  face  to  face.  A  new  light  sparkled  in 
the  poor  wretch's  eyes;  a  cry  of  recognition 
burst  from  his  lips.  He  flung  one  hand  up 
wildly  in  the  air.  "Found!"  he  shouted,  and 
rushed  out  to  the  beach  before  any  of  the  men 
present  could  stop  him. 

Mrs.  Crayford  put  her  arms  round  Clara  and 
held  her  up.  She  had  not  made  a  movement: 
she  had  not  spoken  a  word.  The  sight  of  War- 
dour's  face  had  petrified  her. 

The  minutes  passed,  and  fhere  rose  a  sudden 
burst  of  cheering  from  the  sailors  on  the  beach, 
near  the  spot  where  the  fishermen's  boats  were 
drawn  up.  Every  man  left  his  work.  Every 
man  waved  his  cap  in  the  air.  The  passengers, 
near  at  hand,  caught  the  infection  of  enthusi- 
asm, and  joined  the  crew.  A  moment  more,  and 
Richard  Wardour  appeared  again  in  the  door- 
way, carrying  a  man  in  his  arms.  He  stag- 
gered, breathless  with  the  effort  that  he  was 
making,  to  the  place  where  Clara  stood,  held 
up  in  Mrs.  Crayford's  arms. 

"Saved,  Clara!"  he  cried.    "Saved  for  ^ow  .'" 

He  released  the  man,  and  placed  him  in  Clara's 
arms. 


610  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

Frank!  foot-sore  and  weary — but  living — 
saved;  saved  for  /?er. 

"Now,  Clara!"  cried  Mrs.  Crayford,  "which 
of  us  is  right?  I  who  believed  in  the  mercy  of 
God?  or  you  who  believed  in  a  dream?" 

She  never  answered;  she  clung  to  Frank  in 
speechless  ecstasy.  She  never  even  looked  at 
the  man  who  had  preserved  him,  in  the  first  ab- 
sorbing joy  of  seeing  Frank  alive.  Step  by  step, 
slower  and  slower,  Richard  W ardour  drew  back, 
and  left  them  by  themselves. 

"I  may  rest  now,"  he  said,  faintly.  "I  may 
sleep  at  last.  The  task  is  done.  The  struggle  is 
over, ' ' 

His  last  reserves  of  strength  had  been  given 
to  Frank.  He  stopped — he  staggered — his  hands 
w^aved  feebly  in  search  of  support.  But  for  one 
faithful  friend  he  would  have  fallen.  Crayford 
caught  him.  Crayford  laid  his  old  comrade 
gently  on  some  sails  strewn  in  a  corner,  and  pil- 
lowed Wardour's  weary  head  on  his  own  bosom. 
The  tears  streamed  over  his  face.  "Richard! 
dear  Richard!"  he  said.  "Remember — and  for- 
give me." 

Richard  neither  heeded  nor  heard  him.  His 
dim  eyes  still  looked  across  the  room  at  Clara 
and  Frank. 

".I  have  made  7ier  happy !"  hemurmured.  "I 
may  lay  down  my  weary  head  now  on  the  mother 
earth  that  hushes  all  her  children  to  rest  at  last. 
Sink,  heart!  sink,  sink  to  rest!  Oh,  look  at 
them!"  he  said  to  Crayford,  with  a  burst  of 
grief.     "They  have  forgotten  me  already." 


THE   FROZEN    DEEP.  ()11 

It  was  true!  The  interest  was  all  with  the 
two  lovers.  Frank  was  young  and  handsome 
and  popular.  Officers,  passengers,  and  sailors, 
they  all  crowded  round  Frank.  They  all  forgot 
the  martj^red  man  who  had  saved  him— the  man 
who  was  dying  in  Crayford's  arms. 

Crayford  tried  once  more  to  attract  his  atten- 
tion— to  win  his  recognition  while  there  was  yet 
time.  "Richard,  speak  to  me!  Speak  to  your 
old  friend!" 

He  look  round;  he  vacantly  repeated  Cray- 
ford's  last  word. 

"Friend?"  he  said.  "My  eyes  are  dim,  friend 
— my  mind  is  dull.  I  have  lost  all  memories  but 
the  memory  of  her.  Dead  thoughts — all  dead 
thoughts  but  that  one !  And  j^et  you  look  at  me 
kindly!  Why  has  your  face  gone  down  with 
the  wreck  of  all  the  rest?" 

He  paused ;  his  face  changed ;  his  thoughts 
drifted  back  from  present  to  past;  he  looked  at 
Crayford  vacantly,  lost  in  the  terrible  remem- 
brances that  were  rising  in  him,  as  the  shadows 
rise  with  the  coming  night. 

"Hark  ye,  friend,"  he  whispered.  "Never 
let  Frank  know  it.  There  was  a  time  when  the 
fiend  within  me  hungered  for  his  life.  I  had 
my  hands  on  the  boat.  I  heard  the  voice  of  the 
Tempter  speaking  to  me :  Launch  it,  and  leave 
him  to  die!  I  waited  with  my  hands  on  the 
boat,  and  my  eyes  on  the  place  where  he  slept. 
'Leave  him!  leave  him!'  the  voice  whispered. 
'Love  him!'  the  lad's  voice  answered,  moaning 
and  murmuring  in  his  sleep.     'Love  him,  Clara, 


t)12  WORKS    OF     WILKTE    COLLINS. 

for  helping  me  /'  I  heard  the  morning  wind 
come  up  in  the  silence  over  the  great  deep.  Far 
and  near,  I  heard  the  groaning  of  the  floating 
ice ;  floating,  floating  to  the  clear  water  and  the 
balmy  air.  And  the  wicked  Voice  floated  away 
with  it — away,  away,  away  forever!  *Love 
him !  love  him,  Clara,  for  helping  me  r  No 
wind  could  float  that  away!  'Love  him, 
Clara—'  " 

His  voice  sank  into  silence ;  his  head  dropped 
on  Cray  ford's  breast.  Frank  saw  it.  Frank 
struggled  up  on  his  bleeding  feet  and  parted  the 
friendly  throng  round  him.  Frank  had  not  for- 
gotten the  man  who  had  saved  him. 

"Let  me  go  to  him!"  he  cried.  "I  must  and 
will  go  to  him!     Clara,  come  with  me." 

Clara  and  Steventon  supported  him  between 
them.  He  fell  on  his  knees  at  Wardour's  side; 
he  put  his  hand  on  Wardour's  bosom. 

"Richard!" 

The  weary  eyes  opened  again.  The  sinking 
voice  was  heard  feebly  once  more. 

"Ah!  poor  Frank.  I  didn't  forget  you,  Frank, 
when  I  came  here  to  beg.  I  remembered  you 
lying  down  outside  in  the  shadow  of  the  boats. 
I  saved  you  your  share  of  the  food  and  drink. 
Too  weak  to  get  at  it  now !  A  little  rest,  Frank ! 
I  shall  soon  be  strong  enough  to  carry  you  down 
to  the  ship." 

The  end  was  near.  They  all  saw  it  now.  The 
men  reverently  uncovered  their  heads  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Death.  In  an  agonj'-  of  despair,  Frank 
appealed  to  the  friends  round  him. 


THE    FROZEN    DEEP.  61:! 

"Get  something  to  strengthen  him,  for  God's 
sake !  Oh,  men !  men !  I  should  never  have  been 
here  but  for  him !  He  has  given  all  his  strength 
to  my  weakness;  and  now,  see  how  strong  Jam, 
and  how  weak  he  is!  Clara,  I  held  by  his  arm 
all  over  the  ice  and  snow.  He  kept  watch  when 
I  was  senseless  in  the  open  boat.  His  hand 
dragged  me  out  of  the  waves  when  we  were 
wrecked.  Speak  to  him,  Clara!  speak  to  him!" 
His  voice  failed  him,  and  his  head  dropped  on 
Wardour's  breast. 

She  spoke,  as  well  as  her  tears  would  let 
her. 

"Richard,  have  you  forgotten  me?" 
He  rallied  at  the  sound  of  that  beloved  voice. 
He  looked  up  at  her  as  she  knelt  at  his  head. 

"Forgotten  you?"  Still  looking  at  her,  he 
lifted  his  hand  with  an  effort,  and  laid  it  on 
Frank.  "Should  I  have  been  strong  enough  to 
save  him,  if  I  could  have  forgotten  you  F"  He 
waited  a  moment  and  turned  his  face  feebly  to- 
ward Crayford.  "Stay!"  he  said.  "Someone 
was  here  and  spoke  to  me. ' '  A  faint  light  of 
recognition  glimmered  in  his  eyes.  "Ah,  Cray- 
ford!  I  recollect  now.  Dear  Crayford!  come 
nearer!  My  mind  clears,  but  my  eyes  grow 
dim.  You  will  remember  me  kindly  for  Frank's 
sake?  Poor  Frank!  why  does  he  hide  his  face? 
Is  he  crying?  Nearer,  Clara— I  want  to  look 
my  last  at  you.  My  sister,  Clara!  Kiss  me, 
sister,  kiss  me  before  I  die!" 

She  stooped  and  kissed  his  forehead.  A  faint 
smile  trembled   on   his  lips.     It  passed   away; 


()14  WORKS    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS. 

and  stillness  possessed  the  face  —  the  stillness 
of  Death. 

Crayford's  voice  was  heard  in  the  silence. 

"The  loss  is  ours,"  he  said.  "The  gain  is  his. 
He  has  won  the  greatest  of  all  conquests — the 
conquest  of  himself.  And  he  has  died  in  the 
moment  of  victory.  Not  one  of  us  here  but  may 
live  to  envy  his  glorious  death." 

The  distant  report  of  a  gun  came  from  the 
ship  in  the  offing,  and  signaled  the  return  to 
England  and  to  home. 


END  OF  "the  FROZEN  DEEP.' 


END  OF  VOLUME  FOUR, 


This  book  is  due  at  the  LOUIS  R.  WILSON  LIBRARY  on  the 
last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due,"  If  not  on  hold  it  may  be 
renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 

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